THE   WOODLANDERS 


The  country  of  tHe  woodlanders 

(View  from  High-Stoy,  Looking  Towards  Dogbury  Hill) 
'Th«  commandinfi^  htifhts  calhd  "High-Stoy"  and  "Bubb-Doum  Hill"  ovtrloek  tb* 
landicape  in  which  Little  Himock  is  supposed  to  bt  hid.'  Moff  of  tbt  action  of 'Tb« 
Woodlanders'  takes  plac*  here  or  in  the  immtdiat*  noif^hbourhood.  Hermitage  may  he 
retardtd  as  typical  of  Little  Hintock  and  Minterne  as  exemplified  in  Great  Hintock. 
Tbe  Hinttxks  may  be  said  to  embrace  Hermttaff,  Hillfield,  MiddUmarsh,  Mimttrm, 
Mid  Melbury  Bubb,  in  the  nortltern  part  of  the  County  of  Dorset. 


THE  WOODLANDERS 


BY 


THOMAS    HARDY 


•  Not  boskiest  bow'r. 
When  hearts  are  ill  affin'd. 

Hath  tree  of  pow'r 
To  shelter  from  the  wind  I ' 


HARPER  &  BROTHERS  PUBLISHERS 
NEW  YORK,  AND  LONDON 


lUciMcL^  ¥(ofe7'OCi<ia6  ^^.) 


P(Rlf75t9 


PREFACE 

In  the  present  novel,  as  in  one  or  two  others  of  this 
series  which  involve  the  question  of  matrimonial 
divergence,  the  immortal  puzzle — given  the  man  and 
woman,  how  to  find  a  basis  for  their  sexual  relation — 
is  left  where  it  stood  J  and  it  is  tacitly  assumed  for 
the  purposes  of  the  story  that  no  doubt  of  the 
depravity  of  the  erratic  heart  who  feels  some  second 
person  to  be  better  suited  to  his  or  her  tastes  than 
the  one  with  whom  he  has  contracted  to  live,  enters 
the  head  of  reader  or  writer  for  a  moment.  From  the 
point  of  view  of  marriage  as  a  distinct  covenant  or 
undertaking,  decided  on  by  two  people  fully  cognizant 
of  all  its  possible  issuer,  c:nd  competent  to  carry  them 
through,  this  assumption  is,  of  course,  logical.  Yet 
no  thinking  person  supposes  that,  on  the  broader 
ground  of  how  to  afford  the  greatest  happiness  to 
the  units  of  human  society  during  their  brief  transit 
through  this  sorry  world,  there  is  no  more  to  be  said 
on  this  covenant ;  and  it  is  certainly  not  supposed  by 
the  writer  of  these  pages.  But,  as  Gibbon  blandly 
remarks  on  the  evidence  for  and  against  Christian 
miracles,  *  the  duty  of  an  historian  does  not  call  upon 

vii 

'784H72 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

him  to  interpose  his  private  judgment  in  this  nice  and 
important  controversy.* 

The  stretch  of  country  visible  from  the  heights 
adjoining  the  nook  herein  described  under  the  name 
of  Little  Hintock,  cannot  be  regarded  as  inferior  to 
any  inland  scenery  of  the  sort  in  the  west  of  England, 
or  perhaps  anywhere  in  the  kingdom.  It  is  singular 
to  find  that  a  world-wide  repute  in  some  cases,  and 
an  absolute  famelessness  in  others,  attach  to  spots  of 
equal  beauty  and  equal  accessibility.  The  neigh- 
bourhood of  High-Stoy  (I  give,  as  elsewhere,  the 
real  names  to  natural  features),  Bubb-Down  Hill, 
and  the  glades  westward  to  Montacute ;  of  Bul- 
barrow,  Hambledon  Hill,  and  the  slopes  eastward  to 
Shaston,  Windy  Green,  and  Stour  Head,  teems  with 
landscapes  which,  by  a  mere  accident  of  iteration, 
might  have  been  numbered  among  the  scenic 
celebrities  of  the  English  shires, 

September  1895. 


I  have  been  honoured  by  so  many  inquiries  for 
the  true  name  and  exact  locality  of  the  hamlet  *  Little 
Hintock,'  in  which  the  greater  part  of  the  action  of 
this  story  goes  on,  that  I  may  as  well  confess  here 
once  for  all  that  I  do  not  know  myself  where  that 
hamlet  is  more  precisely  than  as  explained  above  and 
in  the  pages  of  the  narrative.  To  oblige  readers  I 
once  spent  several  hours  on  a  bicycle  with  a  friend 
in  a  serious  attempt  to  discover  the  real  spot ;  but  the 

viil 


PREFACE 

search  ended  in  failure  ;  though  tourists  assure  me 
positively  that  they  have  found  it  without  trouble, 
and  that  it  answers  in  every  particular  to  the  descrip- 
tion given  in  this  volume.  At  all  events,  as  stated 
elsewhere,  the  commanding  heights  called  *  High- 
Stoy '  and  *  Bubb-Down  Hill'  overlook  the  landscape 
in  which  it  is  supposed  to  be  hid. 

In  respect  of  the  occupations  of  the  characters,  the 
adoption  of  iron  utensils  and  implements  in  agriculture, 
and  the  discontinuance  of  thatched  roofs  for  cottages, 
have  almost  extinguished  the  handicrafts  classed 
formerly  as  *  copse  work,'  and  the  type  of  men  who 
engaged  in  them. 

The  Woodlanders  was  first  published  complete,  in 
three  volumes,  in  the  March  of  1887. 

T.  H. 

April  191a. 


THE   WOODLANDERS 


?.o^ 


I't 


The  rambler  who,  for  old  association's  sake,  should 
trace  the  forsaken  coach-road  running  almost  in  a 
meridional  line  from  Bristol  to  the  south  shore  of 
England,  would  find  himself  during  the  latter  half  of 
his  journey  in  the  vicinity  of  some  extensive  wood- 
lands, interspersed  with  apple-orchards.  Here  the 
trees,  timber  or  fruit-bearing  as  the  case  may  be, 
make  the  wayside  hedges  ragged  by  their  drip  and 
shade,  their  lower  limbs  stretching  in  level  repose  over 
the  road,  as  though  reclining  on  the  insubstantial  air. 
At  one  place,  on  the  skirts  of  Blackmoor  Vale,  where 
the  bold  brow  of  High-Stoy  Hill  is  seen  two  or  three 
miles  ahead,  the  leaves  lie  so  thick  in  autumn  as  to 
completely  bury  the  track.  The  spot  is  lonely,  and 
when  the  days  are  darkening  the  many  gay  charioteers 
now  perished  who  have  rolled  along  the  way,  the 
blistered  soles  that  have  trodden  it,  and  the  tears  that 
have  wetted  it,  return  upon  the  mind  of  the  loiterer. 

The  physiognomy  of  a  deserted  highway  ex- 
presses solitude  to  a  degree  that  is  not  reached  by 
mere  dales  or  downs,  and  bespeaks  a  tomb-like  still- 
ness more  emphatic  than  that  of  glades  and  pools. 
The  contrast  of  what  is  with  what  might  be,  probably 
accounts  for  this.  To  step,  for  instance,  at  the  place 
under  notice,  from  the  edge  of  the  plantation  into  the 
adjoining  thoroughfare,  and  pause  amid  its  emptiness 
for  a  moment,  was  to  exchange  by  the  act  of  a  single 
stride  the  simple  absence  of  human  companionship  for 
an  incubus  of  the  forlorn. 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

At  this  spot,  on  the  louring  evening  of  a  bygone 
winter's  day,  there  stood  a  man  who  had  thus  indirectly 
entered  upon  the  scene  from  a  stile  hard  by,  and  was 
temporarily  influenced  by  some  such  feeling  of  being 
suddenly  more  alone  than  before  he  had  emerged 
upon  the  highway. 

It  could  be  seen  by  a  glance  at  his  rather  finical 
style  of  dress  that  he  did  not  belong  to  the  country 
proper ;  and  from  his  air,  after  a  while,  that  though 
th^re  might  be  a  sombre  beauty  in  the  scenery,  music 
in  the  breeze,  and  a  wan  procession  of  coaching  ghosts 
in  the  sentiment  of  this  old  turnpike-road,  he  was 
mainly  puzzled  about  the  way. 

He  looked  north  and  south,  and  mechanically 
prodded  the  ground  with  his  cane. 

At  first  not  a  soul  appeared  who  could  enlighten 
him  as  he  desired,  or  seemed  likely  to  appear  that 
night.  But  presently  a  slight  noise  of  labouring 
wheels,  and  the  steady  dig  of  a  horse's  shoe-tips 
became  audible  ;  and  there  loomed  in  the  notch  of  sky 
and  plantation  a  carrier's  van  drawn  by  a  single  horse. 

The  vehicle  was  half  full  of  passengers,  mostly 
women.  He  held  up  his  stick  at  its  approach,  and 
the  woman  who  was  driving  drew  rein. 

*  I've  been  trying  to  find  a  short  way  to  Little 
Hintock  this  last  half-hour,  Mrs.  Dollery,'  he  said. 
'  But  though  I've  been  to  Great  Hintock  and  Hintock 
House  half  a  dozen  times,  on  business  with  the  dash- 
ing lady  there,  I  am  at  fault  about  the  small  village. 
You  can  help  me,  I  dare  say  ? ' 

She  assured  him  that  she  could — that  as  she  went 
to  Abbot's  Cernel  her  van  passed  near  it — that  it  was 
only  up  the  lane  branching  out  of  the  road  she 
followed.  'Though,'  continued  Mrs.  Dollery,  "tis 
such  a  little  small  place  that,  as  a  town  gentleman, 
you'd  need  have  a  candle  and  lantern  to  find  it  if  ye 
don't  know  where  'tis.  Bedad !  I  wouldn't  live  there 
if  they'd  pay  me  to.  Now  at  Abbot's  Cernel  you  do 
see  the  WPrld  a  bit.* 

a 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

He  mounted  and  sat  beside  her,  with  his  feet  out- 
wards, where  they  were  ever  and  anon  brushed  over 
by  the  horse's  tail. 

This  van  was  rather  a  movable  attachment  of  the 
roadway  than  an  extraneous  object,  to  those  who 
knew  it  well.  The  old  horse,  whose  hair  was  of  the 
roughness  and  colour  of  heather,  whose  leg-joints, 
shoulders,  and  hoofs  were  distorted  by  harness  and 
drudgery  from  colthood — though  if  all  had  their  rights 
he  ought,  symmetrical  in  outline,  to  have  been  picking 
the  herbage  of  some  Eastern  plain  instead  of  tugging 
here — had  trodden  this  road  almost  daily  for  twenty 
years.  Even  his  subjection  was  not  made  congruous 
throughout,  for,  the  harness  being  too  short,  his  tail 
was  not  drawn  through  the  crupper,  and  the  breeching 
slipped  awkwardly  to  one  side.  He  knew  every 
subtle  incline  of  the  ten  miles  of  ground  between 
Abbot's  Cernel  and  Sherton  —  the  market  town  to 
which  he  journeyed — as  accurately  as  any  surveyor 
could  have  learnt  it  by  a  Dumpy  level. 

The  vehicle  had  a  square  black  tilt  which  nodded 
with  the  motion  of  the  wheels,  and  at  a  point  in  it 
over  the  driver's  head  was  a  hook  to  which  the  reins 
were  hitched  at  times,  forming  a  catenary  curve  from 
the  horse's  shoulders.  Somewhere  about  the  axles 
was  a  loose  chain,  whose  only  known  function  was  to 
clink  as  it  went.  Mrs.  Dollery,  having  to  hop  up  and 
down  many  times  in  the  service  of  her  passengers, 
wore,  especially  in  windy  weather,  short  leggings  under 
her  gown  for  modesty's  sake  ;  and  instead  of  a  bonnet 
a  felt  hat  tied  down  with  a  handkerchief,  to  guard 
against  an  ear-ache  to  which  she  was  frequently 
subject.  In  the  rear  of  the  van  was  a  glass  window, 
which  she  cleaned  with  her  pocket-handkerchief  every 
market-day  before  starting.  Looking  at  the  van  from 
the  back  the  spectator  could  thus  see,  through  its 
interior,  a  square  piece  of  the  same  sky  and  landscape 
that  he  saw  without,  but  intruded  on  by  the  profiles  of 
the  seated  passengers,  who,  as  they  rumbled  onward, 

3 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

their  lips  moving  and  heads  nodding  in  animated 
private  converse,  remained  in  cheerful  unconsciousness 
that  their  mannerisms  and  facial  peculiarities  were 
sharply  defined  to  the  public  eye. 

This  hour  of  coming  home  from  market  was  the 
happy  one,  if  not  the  happiest,  of  the  week  for  them. 
Snugly  ensconced  under  the  tilt  they  could  forget  the 
sorrows  of  the  world  without,  and  survey  life  and 
discuss  the  incidents  of  the  day  with  placid  smiles. 

The  passengers  in  the  back  part  formed  a  group  to 
themselves,  and  while  the  newcomer  spoke  to  the 
proprietress  they  indulged  in  a  confidential  chat  about 
him,  which  the  noise  of  the  van  rendered  inaudible  to 
himself  and  Mrs.  Dollery  sitting  forward. 

'  'Tis  Barber  Percomb — he  that's  got  the  waxen 
woman  in  his  window,'  said  one.  *  What  business  can 
bring  him  out  here  at  this  time,  and  not  a  journeyman 
haircutter,  but  a  master-barber  that's  left  off  his  pole 
because  'tis  not  genteel  ?  ' 

The  barber,  though  he  had  nodded  and  spoken 
genially,  seemed  indisposed  to  gratify  the  curiosity 
that  he  had  aroused  ;  and  the  unrestrained  flow  of 
ideas  which  had  animated  the  inside  of  the  van  before 
his  arrival  was  checked  thenceforward. 

Thus  they  rode  on,  and  High-Stoy  Hill  grew 
larger  ahead.  At  length  could  be  discerned  in  the 
dusk,  about  half  a  mile  to  one  side,  gardens  and 
orchards  sunk  in  a  concave,  and,  as  it  were,  snipped 
out  of  the  woodland.  From  this  self-contained  place 
rose  in  stealthy  silence  tall  stems  of  smoke,  which  the 
eye  of  imagination  could  trace  downward  to  their 
root  on  quiet  hearthstones,  festooned  overhead  with 
hams  and  flitches.  It  was  one  of  those  sequestered 
spots  outside  the  gates  of  the  world  where  may  usually 
be  found  more  meditation  than  action,  and  more 
listlessness  than  meditation  ;  where  reasoning  pro- 
ceeds on  narrow  premisses,  and  results  in  inferences 
wildly  imaginative ;  yet  where,  from  time  to  time, 
dramas  of  a  grandeur  and  unity  truly  Sophoclean  are 

4 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

enacted  in  the  real,  by  virtue  of  the  concentrated 
passions  and  closely-knit  interdependence  of  the  lives 
therein. 

This  place  was  the  Little  Hintock  of  the  master- 
barber's  search.  The  coming  night  gradually  obscured 
the  smoke  of  the  chimneys,  but  the  position  of  the 
wood-environed  community  could  still  be  distinguished 
by  a  few  faint  lights,  winking  more  or  less  ineffectu- 
ally through  the  leafless  boughs  and  the  undiscernible 
songsters  they  bore,  in  the  form  of  balls  of  feathers,  at 
roost  among  them. 

At  the  corner  of  the  lane  which  branched  to  the 
hamlet  the  barber  alighted,  Mrs.  Dollery's  van  going 
onward  to  the  larger  place,  whose  superiority  to  the 
despised  smaller  one  as  an  exemplar  of  the  world's 
movements  was  not  particularly  apparent  in  its  means 
of  approach. 

*  A  very  clever  and  learned  young  doctor  lives 
in  the  place  you  be  going  to — not  because  there's 
anybody  for'n  to  cure  there,  but  because  they  say 
he  is  in  league  with  the  devil.' 

The  observation  was  flung  at  the  barber  by  one  of 
the  women  at  parting,  as  a  last  attempt  to  get  at  his 
errand  that  way. 

But  he  made  no  reply  and  without  further  pause 
plunged  towards  the  umbrageous  nook,  and  paced 
cautiously  over  the  dead  leaves  which  nearly  buried 
the  road  or  street  of  the  hamlet.  As  very  few 
people  except  themselves  passed  this  way  after  dark, 
a  majority  of  the  denizens  of  Little  Hintock  deemed 
window  curtains  unnecessary  ;  and  on  this  account 
their  visitor  made  it  his  business  to  stop  opposite  the 
casements  of  each  cottage  that  he  came  to,  with  a 
demeanour  which  showed  that  he  was  endeavouring 
to  conjecture,  from  the  persons  and  things  he  observed 
within,  the  whereabouts  of  somebody  or  other  who 
resided  here. 

Only  the  smaller  dwellings  interested  him ;  one 
or  two   houses   whose  size,  antiquity,   and  rambling 

S 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

appurtenances  signified  that  notwithstanding  their 
remoteness  they  must  formerly  have  been,  if  they 
were  not  still,  inhabited  by  people  of  a  certain  social 
standing,  being  neglected  by  him  entirely.  Smells 
of  pomace,  and  the  hiss  of  fermenting  cider,  which 
reached  him  from  the  back  quarters  of  other  tene- 
ments, revealed  the  recent  occupation  of  some  of  the 
inhabitants,  and  joined  with  the  scent  of  decay  from 
the  perishing  leaves  underfoot. 

Half  a  dozen  dwellings  were  passed  without  result. 
The  next,  which  stood  opposite  a  tall  tree,  was  in  an 
exceptional  state  of  radiance,  the  flickering  brightness 
from  the  inside  shining  up  the  chimney  and  making  a 
luminous  mist  of  the  emerging  smoke.  The  interior, 
as  seen  through  the  window,  caused  him  to  draw  up 
with  a  terminative  air  and  watch.  The  house  was 
rather  large  for  a  cottage,  and  the  door,  which  opened 
immediately  into  the  living-room,  stood  ajar,  so  that  a 
riband  of  light  fell  through  the  opening  into  the  dark 
atmosphere  without.  Every  now  and  then  a  moth, 
decrepit  from  the  late  season,  would  flit  for  a  moment 
across  the  outcoming  rays  and  disappear  again  into 
the  night. 


II 

In  the  room  from  which  this  cheerful  blaze  proceeded 
he  beheld  a  girl  seated  on  a  willow  chair,  and  busily 
working  by  the  light  of  the  fire,  which  was  ample  and 
of  wood.  With  a  bill-hook  in  one  hand  and  a  leather 
glove  much  too  large  for  her  on  the  other,  she  was 
making  spars,  such  as  are  used  by  thatchers,  with 
great  rapidity.  She  wore  a  leather  apron  for  this 
purpose,  which  was  also  much  too  large  for  her  figure. 
On  her  left  hand  lay  a  bundle  of  the  straight,  smooth 
hazel  rods  called  spar-gads — the  raw  material  of  her 
manufacture  ;  on  her  right  a  heap  of  chips  and  ends 
— the  refuse — with  which  the  fire  was  maintained  ;  in 
front  a  pile  of  the  finished  articles.  To  produce  them 
she  took  up  each  gad,  looked  critically  at  it  from  end 
to  end,  cut  it  to  length,  split  it  into  four,  and  sharpened 
each  of  the  quarters  with  dexterous  blows,  which 
brought  it  to  a  triangular  point  precisely  resembling 
that  of  a  bayonet. 

Beside  her,  in  case  she  might  require  more  light,  a 
brass  candlestick  stood  on  a  little  round  table  curiously 
formed  of  an  old  coffin-stool,  with  a  deal  top  nailed 
on,  the  white  surface  of  the  latter  contrasting  oddly 
with  the  black  carved  oak  of  the  sub-structure.  The 
social  position  of  the  household  in  the  past  was  almost 
as  definitively  shown  by  the  presence  of  this  article  as 
that  of  an  esquire  or  nobleman  by  his  old  helmets  or 
shields.  It  had  been  customary  for  every  well-to-do 
villager,  whose  tenure  was  by  copy  of  court-roll,  or  in 
any  way  more  permanent  than  that  of  the  mere  cotter, 

7 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

to  keep  a  pair  of  these  stools  for  the  use  of  his  own 
dead  ;  but  changes  had  led  to  the  discontinuance  of 
the  custom,  and  the  stools  were  frequently  made  use 
of  in  the  manner  described. 

The  young  woman  laid  down  the  bill-hook  for  a 
moment  and  examined  the  palm  of  her  right  hand 
which,  unlike  the  other,  was  ungloved,  and  showed 
little  hardness  or  roughness  about  it.  The  palm  was 
red  and  blistering,  as  if  her  present  occupation  were 
as  yet  too  recent  to  have  subdued  it  to  what  it  worked 
in.  As  with  so  many  right  hands  born  to  manual 
labour,  there  was  nothing  in  its  fundamental  shape 
to  bear  out  the  physiological  conventionalism  that 
gradations  of  birth  show  themselves  primarily  in  the 
form  of  this  member.  Nothing  but  a  cast  of  the  die 
of  destiny  had  decided  that  the  girl  should  handle  the 
tool ;  and  the  fingers  which  clasped  the  heavy  ash 
haft  might  have  skilfully  guided  the  pencil  or  swept 
the  string,  had  they  only  been  set  to  do  it  in  good 
time. 

Her  face  had  the  usual  fulness  of  expression  which 
is  developed  by  a  life  of  solitude.  Where  the  eyes 
of  a  multitude  continuously  beat  like  waves  upon  a 
countenance  they  seem  to  wear  away  its  mobile 
power ;  but  in  the  still  water  of  privacy  every  feeling 
and  sentiment  unfolds  in  visible  luxuriance,  to  be 
interpreted  as  readily  as  a  printed  word  by  an 
intruder.  In  years  she  was  no  more  than  nineteen 
or  twenty,  but  the  necessity  of  taking  thought  at  a  too 
early  period  of  life  had  forced  the  provisional  curves 
of  her  childhood's  face  to  a  premature  finality.  Thus 
she  had  but  little  pretension  to  beauty,  save  in  one 
prominent  particular — her  hair. 

Its  abundance  made  it  almost  unmanageable;  its 
colour  was,  roughly  speaking,  and  as  seen  here  by 
firelight,  brown  ;  but  careful  notice,  or  an  observation 
by  day,  would  have  revealed  that  its  true  shade  was  a 
rare  and  beautiful  approximation  to  chestnut. 

On  this  one  bright  gift  of  Time  to  the  particular 

8 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

victim  of  his  now  before  us  the  newcomer's  eyes 
were  fixed  ;  meanwhile  the  fingers  of  his  right  hand 
mechanically  played  over  something  sticking  up  from 
his  waistcoat  pocket — the  bows  of  a  pair  of  scissors, 
whose  polish  made  them  feebly  responsive  to  the  light 
from  within  the  house.  In  her  present  beholder's 
mind  the  scene  formed  by  the  girlish  spar- maker 
composed  itself  into  an  impression-picture  of  extremest 
type,  wherein  the  girl's  hair  alone,  as  the  focus  of 
observation,  was  depicted  with  intensity  and  distinct- 
ness, while  her  face,  shoulders,  hands,  and  figure  in 
general  were  a  blurred  mass  of  unimportant  detail  lost 
in  haze  and  obscurity. 

He  hesitated  no  longer,  but  tapped  at  the  door 
and  entered.  The  young  woman  turned  at  the 
crunch  of  his  boots  on  the  sanded  floor,  and  exclaim- 
ing, *  O,  Mr.  Percomb,  how  you  frightened  me !  ' 
quite  lost  her  colour  for  a  moment. 

He  replied,  *You  should  shut  your  door — then 
you'd  hear  folk  open  it.' 

*  I  can't,'  she  said  ;  *  the  chimney  smokes  so.  Mr. 
Percomb,  you  look  as  unnatural  away  from  your  wigs 
as  a  canary  in  a  thorn  hedge.  Surely  you  have  not 
come  out  here  on  my  account — for ' 

*  Yes — to  have  your  answer  about  this.'  He 
touched  her  hair  with  his  cane,  and  she  winced.  *  Do 
you  agree  .'* '  he  continued.  *  It  is  necessary  that  I 
should  know  at  once,  as  the  lady  is  soon  going  away, 
and  it  takes  time  to  make  up.' 

*  Don't  press  me — it  worries  me.  I  was  in  hopes 
you  had  thought  no  more  of  it.  I  can  not  part  with  it 
— so  there  ! ' 

*  Now  look  here,  Marty,'  said  the  other,  sitting 
down  on  the  coffin-stool  table.  *  How  much  do  you 
get  for  making  these  spars  } ' 

'Hush  —  father's  upstairs  awake,  and  he  don't 
know  that  I  am  doing  his  work.' 

*  Well,  now  tell  me,'  said  the  man  more  softly. 
*  How  much  do  you  get } ' 

9 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

*  Elghteenpence  a  thousand,'  she  said  reluctantly. 

*  Who  are  you  making  them  for  ? ' 

*  Mr.  Melbury,  the  timber-dealer,  just  below  here.' 

*  And  how  many  can  you  make  in  a  day  ? ' 

*  In  a  day  and  half  the  night,  three  bundles — that's 
a  thousand  and  a  half.' 

*  Two    and    threepence.'       Her    visitor    paused. 

*  Well,  look  here,'  he  continued,  with  the  remains  of  a 
computation  in  his  tone,  which  reckoning  had  been  to 
fix  the  probable  sum  of  money  necessary  to  outweigh 
her  present  resources  and  her  woman's  love  of  comeli- 
ness ;  '  here's  a  sovereign — a  gold  sovereign,  almost 
new.'     He  held  it  out  between  his  finger  and  thumb. 

*  That's  as  much  as  you'd  earn  in  a  week  and  a  half  at 
that  rough  man's- work,  and  it's  yours  for  just  letting 
me  snip  off  what  you've  got  too  much  of.' 

The  girl's  bosom  moved  a  very  little.  *  Why 
can't  the  lady  send  to  some  other  girl  who  don't  value 
her  hair — not  to  me  ?  '  she  exclaimed. 

*  Why,  simpleton,  because  yours  is  the  exact  shade 
of  her  own,  and  'tis  a  shade  you  can't  match  by 
dyeing.  But  you  are  not  going  to  refuse  me  now 
I've  come  all  the  way  from  Sherton  on  purpose  ?' 

*  I  say  I  won't  sell  it — to  you  or  anybody.' 

*  Now  listen,'  and  he  drew  up  a  little  closer  beside 
her.  *  The  lady  is  very  rich,  and  won't  be  particular 
to  a  few  shillings ;  so  I  will  advance  to  this  on  my 
own  responsibility — I'll  make  the  one  sovereign  two, 
rather  than  go  back  empty-handed.' 

*  No,  no,  no !  '  she  cried,  beginning  to  be  much 
agitated.  '  You  are  tempting  me.  You  go  on  like 
the  Devil  to  Doctor  Faustus  in  the  penny  book.  But 
I  don't  want  your  money,  and  won't  agree.  Why  did 
you  come  ?  I  said  when  you  got  me  into  your  shop 
and  urged  me  so  much  that  I  didn't  mean  to  sell  my 
hair!' 

*  Marty,  now  hearken.  The  lady  that  wants  it  wants 
it  badly.  And,  between  you  and  me,  you'd  better  let 
her  have  it.     'Twill  be  bad  for  you  if  you  don't.' 

10 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

*  Bad  for  me  ?     Who  is  she,  then  ?  ' 

The  wig -maker  held  his  tongue,  and  the  girl 
repeated  the  question. 

*  I  am  not  at  liberty  to  tell  you.  And  as  she  is 
going  abroad  soon  it  makes  no  difference  who  she  is 
at  all' 

*  She  wants  it  to  go  abroad  wi'  ?  * 
He  assented  by  a  nod. 

The  girl  regarded  him  reflectively.  *  Now,  Mr. 
Percomb,'  she  said,  *  I  know  who  'tis.  'Tis  she  at  the 
House — Mrs.  Charmond  ! ' 

'That's  my  secret.  However,  if  you  agree  to  let 
me  have  it  I'll  tell  you  in  confidence.' 

'  I'll  certainly  not  let  you  have  it  unless  you  tell 
me  the  truth.     Is  it  Mrs.  Charmond  ?  ' 

The  man  dropped  his  voice.  *  Well — it  is.  You 
sat  in  front  of  her  in  church  the  other  day,  and  she 
noticed  how  exactly  your  hair  matches  her  own. 
Ever  since  then  she's  been  hankering  for  it,  to  help 
out  hers,  and  at  last  decided  to  get  it.  As  she  won't 
wear  it  till  she  goes  off  abroad  she  knows  nobody 
will  recognize  the  change.  I'm  commissioned  to  get 
it  for  her,  and  then  it  is  to  be  made  up.  I  shouldn't 
have  vamped  all  these  miles  for  any  less  important 
employer.  Now,  mind — 'tis  as  much  as  my  business 
with  her  is  worth  if  it  should  be  known  that  I've  let 
out  her  name  ;  but  honour  between  us  two,  Marty, 
and  you'll  say  nothing  that  would  injure  me  ? ' 

*  I  don't  wish  to  tell  upon  her,'  said  Marty  coolly. 
*  But  my  hair  is  my  own,  and  I'm  going  to  keep  it.* 

'  Now  that's  not  fair,  after  what  I've  told  you,'  said 
the  nettled  emissary.  '  You  see,  Marty,  as  you  are 
in  the  same  parish,  and  in  one  of  this  lady's  cottages, 
and  your  father  is  ill,  and  wouldn't  like  to  turn  out, 
it  would  be  as  well  to  oblige  her.  I  say  that  as  a 
friend.  But  I  won't  press  you  to  make  up  your  mind 
to-night.  You'll  be  coming  to  market  to-morrow,  I 
dare  say,  and  you  can  call  then.  If  you  think  it  over 
you'll  be  inclined  to  bring  what  I  want,  I  know,' 

II 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

*  I've  nothing  more  to  say,'  she  answered. 

Her  companion  saw  from  her  manner  that  it  was 
useless  to  urge  her  further  by  speech.  *  As  you 
are  a  trusty  young  woman,'  he  said,  *  I'll  put  these 
sovereigns  up  here  for  ornament,  that  you  may  see 
how  handsome  they  are.  Bring  the  article  to- 
morrow, or  return  the  sovereigns.'  He  stuck  them 
edgewise  into  the  frame  of  a  small  mantel  looking- 
glass.  *  I  hope  you'll  bring  it ;  for  your  sake  and 
mine.  I  should  have  thought  she  could  have  suited 
herself  elsewhere ;  but  as  it's  her  fancy  it  must  be 
indulged  if  possible.  If  you  cut  it  off  yourself,  mind 
how  you  do  it  so  as  to  keep  all  the  locks  one  way.' 
He  showed  her  how  this  was  to  be  done. 

*  But  I  shan't,'  she  replied  with  laconic  indifference. 
*  I  value  my  looks  too  much  to  spoil  'em.  She  wants 
my  curls  to  get  another  lover  with  ;  though  if  stories 
are  true  she's  broke  the  heart  of  many  a  noble  gentle- 
man already.' 

*  Lord,  it's  wonderful  how  you  guess  things, 
Marty,'  said  the  barber.  '  I've  had  it  from  those  that 
know  that  there  certainly  is  some  foreign  gentleman 
in  her  eye.      However,  mind  what  I  ask.' 

*  She's  not  going  to  get  him  through  me.* 
Percomb  had  retired  as  far  as  the  door ;  he  came 

back,  planted  his  cane  on  the  coffin-stool,  and  looked 
her  in  the  face.  '  Marty  South,'  he  said  with  de- 
liberate emphasis,  'youve  got  a  lover  yourself ,  and  that's 
why  you  won't  let  it  go ! ' 

She  reddened  so  intensely  as  to  pass  the  mild 
blush  that  suffices  to  heighten  beauty ;  she  put  the 
yellow  leather  glove  on  one  hand,  took  up  the  hook 
with  the  other,  and  sat  down  doggedly  to  her  work 
without  turning  her  face  to  him  again.  He  regarded 
her  head  for  a  moment,  went  to  the  door,  and  with 
one  look  back  at  her  departed  on  his  way  homeward. 

Marty  pursued  her  occupation  for  a  few  minutes, 
then  suddenly  laying  down  the  bill-hook  she  jumped 
up   and  went  to  the   back  of  the  room,   where  she 

12 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

opened  a  door  which  disclosed  a  staircase  so  whitely 
scrubbed  that  the  grain  of  the  wood  was  wellnigh 
sodden  away  by  cleansing.  At  the  top  she  gently 
approached  a  bedroom,  and  without  entering  said, 
*  Father,  do  you  want  anything  ?  ' 

A  weak  voice  inside  answered  in  the  negative ; 
adding,  *  I  should  be  all  right  by  to-morrow  if  it  were 
not  for  the  tree  ! ' 

*  The  tree  again — always  the  tree !  O,  father, 
don't  worry  so  about  that.  You  know  it  can  do  you 
no  harm.' 

*  Who  have  ye  had  talking  to  'ee  downstairs  ?  * 

'  A  Sherton  man  called — nothing  to  trouble  about,' 

she   said   soothingly.      *  Father,'   she  went  on,    *can 

Mrs.   Charmond   turn   us  out  of  our  house  if  she's 

minded  to  ?  ' 
[  'Turn  us  out?     No.     Nobody  can  turn  us  out  till 

I  my  poor  soul  is  turned  out  of  my  body.  'Tis  lifehold, 
[  like  Giles  Winterborne's.  But  when  my  life  drops 
^       'twill   be   hers — not   till   then.'      His  words   on   this 

subject  so  far  had  been  rational    and  firm   enough. 

But  now  he  lapsed  into  his  moaning  strain :    *  And 

the  tree  will  do  it — that  tree  will  soon  be  the  death 

of  me.' 

'Nonsense,  you  know  better.     How  can  it  be.^* 

She  refrained  from  further  speech,  and  descended  to 

the  ground  floor  again. 

'Thank  Heaven  then,'  she  said  to  herself,  'what 

belongs  to  me  I  keep.* 


Ill 

The  lights  in  the  village  went  out,  house  after  house, 
till  there  only  remained  two  in  the  darkness.  One 
of  these  came  from  a  residence  on  the  hill-side — that 
of  the  young  medical  gentleman  in  league  with  the 
devil,  of  whom  there  is  something  to  be  said  later  on  ; 
the  other  shone  from  the  window  of  Marty  South. 
Precisely  the  same  extinguished  effect  was  produced 
here,  however,  by  her  rising  when  the  clock  struck 
ten  and  hanging  up  a  thick  cloth  curtain.  The  door 
it  was  necessary  to  keep  ajar  in  hers  as  in  most 
cottages  because  of  the  smoke ;  but  she  obviated  the 
effect  of  the  riband  of  light  through  the  chink  by 
hanging  a  cloth  over  that  also.  She  was  one  of 
these  people  who,  if  they  have  to  work  harder  than 
their  neighbours,  prefer  to  keep  the  necessity  a  secret 
as  far  as  possible  ;  and,  but  for  the  slight  sounds  of 
wood-splintering  which  came  from  within,  no  way- 
farer would  have  perceived  that  here  the  cottager  did 
not  sleep  as  elsewhere. 

Eleven,  twelve,  one  o'clock  struck ;  the  heap  of 
spars  grew  higher,  and  the  pile  of  chips  and  ends 
more  bulky.  Even  the  light  on  the  hill  had  now 
been  extinguished ;  but  still  she  worked  on.  When 
the  temperature  of  the  night  without  had  fallen  so 
low  as  to  make  her  chilly  she  opened  a  large  blue 
umbrella  to  ward  off  the  draught  from  the  door.  The 
two  sovereigns  confronted  her  from  the  looking-glass 
in  such  a  manner  as  to  suggest  a  pair  of  jaundiced 
eyes  on  the  watch  for  an  opportunity.     Whenever 

14 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

she  sighed  for  weariness  she  lifted  her  gaze  towards 
them,  but  withdrew  it  quickly,  stroking  her  tresses 
for  a  moment  as  if  to  convince  herself  that  they  were 
still  secure.  When  the  clock  struck  three  she  arose 
and  tied  up  the  spars  she  had  last  made  in  a  bundle 
resembling  those  that  lay  against  the  wall. 

She  wrapped  round  her  a  long  red  woollen  cravat 
and  opened  the  door.  The  night  in  all  its  fulness 
met  her  flatly  on  the  threshold,  like  the  very  brink 
of  an  absolute  void,  or  the  ante-mundane  Ginnung- 
Gap  believed  in  by  her  Teuton  forefathers.  For 
her  eyes  were  fresh  from  the  blaze,  and  here  there 
was  no  street  lamp  or  lantern  to  form  a  kindly  transi- 
tion between  the  inner  glare  and  the  outer  dark. 
A  lingering  wind  brought  to  her  ear  the  creaking 
sound  of  two  overcrowded  branches  in  the  neighbour- 
ing wood,  which  were  rubbing  each  other  into  wounds, 
and  other  vocalized  sorrows  of  the  trees,  together 
with  the  screech  of  owls,  and  the  fluttering  tumble 
of  some  awkward  wood-pigeon  ill-balanced  on  its 
roosting-bough. 

But  the  pupils  of  her  young  eyes  soon  expanded, 
and  she  could  see  well  enough  for  her  purpose. 
Taking  a  bundle  of  spars  under  each  arm,  and 
guided  by  the  serrated  line  of  tree-tops  against  the 
sky,  she  went  some  hundred  yards  or  more  down 
the  lane  till  she  reached  a  long  open  shed,  carpeted 
around  with  the  dead  leaves  that  lay  about  every- 
where. Night,  that  strange  personality  which  within 
walls  brings  ominous  introspectiveness  and  self-dis- 
trust, but  under  the  open  sky  banishes  such  subjec- 
tive anxieties  as  too  trivial  for  thought,  gave  to 
Marty  South  a  less  perturbed  and  brisker  manner 
now.  She  laid  the  spars  on  the  ground  within  the 
shed  and  returned  for  more,  going  to  and  fro  till  her 
whcle  manufactured  stock  was  deposited  here. 

This  erection  was  the  waggon-house  of  the  chief 
man  of  business  hereabout,  Mr.  George  Melbury,  the 
timber,    bark,   and   copse -ware   merchant   for   whom 

IS 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

Marty's  father  did  work  of  this  sort  by  the  piece. 
It  formed  one  of  the  many  rambling  outhouses  which 
surrounded  his  dwelling,  an  equally  irregular  block 
of  building  whose  immense  chimneys  could  just  be 
discerned  even  now.  The  four  huge  waggons  under 
the  shed  were  built  on  those  ancient  lines  whose  pro- 
portions have  been  ousted  by  modern  patterns,  their 
shapes  bulging  and  curving  at  the  base  and  ends  like 
Trafalgar  line-of-battle  ships,  with  which  venerable 
hulks,  indeed,  these  vehicles  evidenced  a  constructive 
spirit  curiously  in  harmony.  One  was  laden  with 
sheep-cribs,  another  with  hurdles,  another  with  ash 
poles,  and  the  fourth,  at  the  foot  of  which  she  had 
placed  her  thatching-spars,  was  half  full  of  similar 
bundles. 

She  was  pausing  a  moment  with  that  easeful  sense 
of  accomplishment  which  follows  work  done  that  has 
been  a  hard  struggle  in  the  doing,  when  she  heard  a 
woman's  voice  on  the  other  side  of  the  hedge  say 
anxiously,  *  George  ! ' 

In  a  moment  the  name  was  repeated,  with  '  Do 
come  indoors  !     What  are  you  doing  there  ?  ' 

The  cart-house  adjoined  the  garden,  and  before 
Marty  had  moved  she  saw  enter  the  latter  from  the 
timber-merchant's  back  door  an  elderly  woman  shelter- 
ing a  candle  with  her  hand,  the  light  from  which  cast 
a  moving  thorn-pattern  of  shade  on  Marty's  face.  Its 
rays  soon  fell  upon  a  man  whose  clothes  were  care- 
lessly thrown  on,  standing  in  advance  of  the  speaker. 
He  was  a  thin,  slightly  stooping  figure,  with  a  small, 
nervous  mouth,  and  a  face  cleanly  shaven  ;  and  he 
walked  along  the  path  with  his  eyes  bent  on  the 
ground.  In  the  pair  Marty  South  recognized  her 
employer  Melbury  and  his  wife.  She  was  the  second 
Mrs.  Melbury,  the  first  having  died  shortly  after  the 
birth  of  the  timber-merchant's  only  child. 

*  'Tis  no  use  to  stay  in  bed ! '  he  said,  as  soon  as 
she  came  up  to  where  he  was  pacing  restlessly  about. 
*  I  can't  sleep.     I  keep  thinking  of  things.' 

i6 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

*  What  things  ?  ' 
He  did  not  answer. 

*  The  lady  at  the  Great  House  ?  * 

*  No/ 

*  The  turnpike  bonds  ?  ' 

*  No.     Though  I  wish  I  hadn't  got  'em/ 

*  The  ghosts  of  the  Two  Brothers  ? ' 
He  shook  his  head.  ^^- 

*  Not  about  Grace  again  ?  * 
•Yes.     Tisshe.' 

(Grace  was  the  speaker's  only  daughter.) 

*  Why  worry  about  her  always  ?  ' 

*  First,  I  cannot  think  why  she  doesn't  answer  my 
letter.     She  must  be  ill.' 

*  No,  no.  Things  only  appear  so  gloomy  in  the 
night-time.' 

*  Second,  I  have  not  invested  any  money  specially 
for  her,  to  put  her  out  of  the  reach  of  poverty  if  my 
affairs  fail.' 

*  They  are  safe.  Besides,  she  is  sure  to  marry 
well.' 

*  You  are  wrong.  That's  my  third  trouble.  I 
have,  as  I  have  hinted  to  you  a  dozen  times,  that  plan 
in  my  head  about  her,  and  according  to  my  plan  she 
won't  marry  well.' 

*  Why  won't  it  be  marrying  well  ?  '  said  his  wife. 

*  Because  it  is  a  plan  for  her  to  marry  that  par- 
ticular person,  Giles  Winterboijne^.and  he  i&^poor.' 

*  Well,  it  is  all  right.  Love  will  make  up  for  his 
want  of  money.  He  adores  the  very  ground  she 
walks  on.' 

(Marty  South  started,  and  could  not  tear  herself 
away.) 

*  Yes,'  said  the  timber-merchant ;  *  I  know  that 
well.  There  will  be  no  lack  of  that  with  him.  But 
since  I  have  educated  her  so  well,  and  so  long,  and  so 
far  above  the  level  of  the  daughters  hereabout,  it  is 
wasting  her  to  give  her  to  a  man  of  no  higher  standing 
than  he.' 

17 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

*  Then  why  do  it  ?  *  she  asked. 

*  Why,  as  you  must  surely  see,  it  is  in  obedience  to 
that  solemn  resolve  I  made.  ...  I  made  it  because  I 
did  his  father  a  terrible  wrong ;  and  it  has  been  a 
weight  on  my  conscience  ever  since  that  time,  till  this 
scheme  of  making  amends  occurred  to  me  through 
seeing  that  Giles  liked  her.' 

*  Wronged  his  father  ?  '  asked  Mrs.  Melbury. 

*  Yes,  grievously  wronged  him,'  said  her  husband. 

*  I  have  spoken  of  it  to  you.' 

*Well,    don't   think   of   it    to-night,'    she    urged. 

*  Come  indoors.' 

'No,  no ;  the  air  cools  my  head.  I  shall  not  stay 
long.' 

He  was  silent  awhile  ;  then  he  reminded  her  that 
his  first  wife,  his  daughter's  mother,  was  first  the 
promised  of  Winterborne's  father,  who  loved  her 
tenderly,  till  he,  the  speaker,  won  her  away  from  him 
by  a  trick,  because  he  wanted  to  marry  her  himself. 
He  went  on  to  say  that  the  other  man's  happiness  was 
ruined  by  it ;  that  though  he  married  Winterborne's 
mother  it  was  but  a  half-hearted  business  with  him. 
Thus  much  Marty  had  heard  before.  Melbury  added 
that  he  was  afterwards  very  miserable  at  what  he  had 
done  ;  but  that  as  time  went  on,  and  the  children  grew 
up,  and  seemed  to  be  attached  to  each  other,  he  deter- 
mined to  do  all  he  could  to  right  the  wrong  by  letting 
his  daughter  marry  the  lad ;  not  only  that,  but  to  give 
her  the  best  education  he  could  afford,  so  as  to  make 
the  gift  as  valuable  a  one  as  it  lay  in  his  power  to 
bestow.     *  I  still  mean  to  do  it,'  said  Melbury. 

*  Then  do,'  said  she. 

*  But  all  these  things  trouble  me,'  said  he  ;  *  for  I 
feel  I  am  sacrificing  her  for  my  own  sin  ;  and  I  think 
of  her,  and  often  come  down  here  to  look  at  this.  I 
have  come  to-night  to  do  so  once  more.' 

He  took  the  candle  from  her  hand,  held  it  to  the 
ground,  and  removed  a  tile  which  lay  in  the  garden- 
path.     *  'Tis  the  track  of  her  shoe  that  she  made  when 

iS 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

she  ran  down  here  the  day  before  she  went  away  all 
those  months  ago.  I  covered  it  up  when  she  was 
gone ;  and  when  I  come  here  to  look  at  it,  I  ask 
myself  again,  why  should  she  be  sacrificed  to  a  poor 
man  ? ' 

'  It  is  not  altogether  a  sacrifice,*  said  the  woman. 

*  He  is  in  love  with  her,  and  he's  honest  and  upright. 
If  she  encourages  him,  what  can  you  wish  for  more? ' 

*  I  wish  for  nothing  definite.  But  there's  a  lot  of 
things  possible  for  her.  Why,  Mrs.  Charmond  is 
wanting  some  refined  young  lady,  I  hear,  to  go  abroad 
with  her — as  companion  or  something  of  the  kind. 
She'd  jump  at  Grace.' 

*  That's  all  uncertain.     Better  stick  to  what's  sure.* 

*  True,  true,*  said  Melbury ;  *  and  I  hope  it  will  be 
for  the  best.  Yes,  let  me  get  'em  married  up  as  soon 
as  I  can,  so  as  to  ave  it  over  and  done  with.'  He 
continued    looking   at   the    imprint   while    he    added, 

*  Suppose  she  should  be  dying,  and  never  make  a  track 
on  this  path  any  more  ?  ' 

'  She'll  write  soon,  depend  upon't.  Come,  *tis 
wrong  to  stay  here  and  brood  so.' 

He  admitted  it,   but  said  he  could  not  help  it. 

*  W.hether  she  write  or  no,  I  shall  fetch  her  in  a  few 
days.'  And  thus  speaking  he  covered  the  shoe-track, 
and  preceded  his  wife  indoors. 

Melbury  perhaps  was  an  unlucky  man  in  having 
the  .sentiment  which  could  make  him  wander  out  in 
the  night  to  regard  the  imprint  of  a  daughter's  foot- 
step.. Nature  does  not  carry  on  her  government  with 
a  vi  ew  to  such  feelings  ;  and  when  advancing  years 
rendler  the  opened  hearts  of  those  that  possess  them 
less  dexterous  than  formerly  in  shutting  against  the 
bias  t,  they  must  inevitably,  like  little  celandines,  suffer 

*  bu  ffeting  at  will  by  rain  and  storm.' 

But  her  own  existence,  and  not  Mr.  Melbury's, 
was.  the  centre  of  Marty's  consciousness,  and  it  was  in 
relntion  to  this  that  the  matter  struck  her  as  she  slowly 
witMrew, 

19 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

*  That,  then,  is  the  secret  of  it  all,'  she  said.  *  I 
had  half  thought  so.  And  Giles  Winterborne  is  not 
for  me  I  * 

She  returned  to  her  cottage.  The  sovereigns 
were  staring  at  her  from  the  looking-glass  as  she 
had  left  them.  With  a  preoccupied  countenance, 
and  with  tears  in  her  eyes,  she  got  a  pair  of  scissors 
and  began  mercilessly  cutting  off  the  long  locks  of  her 
hair,  arranging  and  tying  them  with  their  points  all 
one  way  as  the  barber  had  directed.  Upon  the  pale 
scrubbed  deal  of  the  coffin-stool  table  they  stretched 
like  waving  and  ropy  weeds  over  the  washed  white 
bed  of  a  stream. 

She  would  not  turn  again  to  the  little  looking-glass 
out  of  humanity  to  herself,  knowing  what  a  deflowered 
visage  would  look  back  at  her  and  almost  break  her 
heart ;  she  dreaded  it  as  much  as  did  her  own 
ancestral  goddess  the  reflection  in  the  pool  after  the 
rape  of  her  locks  by  Loke  the  Malicious.  She  steadily 
stuck  to  business,  wrapped  the  hair  in  a  parcel,  and 
sealed  it  up  ;  after  which  she  raked  out  the  fire  and 
went  to  bed,  having  first  set  up  an  alarum  made  of  a 
candle  and  piece  of  thread  with  a  stone  attached. 

But  such  a  reminder  was  unnecessary  to-night. 
Having  tossed  about  till  five  o'clock  Marty  heard  the 
sparrows  walking  down  their  long  holes  in  the  thatch 
above  her  sloping  ceiling  to  their  exits  at  the  eaves ; 
whereupon  she  also  arose  and  descended  to  the  ground 
floor. 

It  was  still  dark,  but  she  began  moving  about  the 
house  in  those  automatic  initiatory  acts  and  touches 
which  represent  among  housewives  the  installation  of 
another  day.  While  thus  engaged  she  heard  the 
rumbling  of  Mr.  Melbury's  waggons,  and  knew  that 
there,  too,  the  day's  toil  had  begun. 

An  armful  of  gads  thrown  on  the  still  hot  embers 
caused  them  to  blaze  up  cheerfully,  and  bring  her 
diminished  headgear  into  sudden  prominence  as  a 
shadow.     At  this  a  step  approached  the  door. 

20 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

*  Are  folk  astir  here  yet  ? '  inquired  a  voice  she 
knew  well. 

'  Yes,  Mr.  Winterborne,'  said  Marty,  throwing  on 
a  tilt  bonnet,  which  completely  hid  the  recent  ravages 
of  the  scissors.     *  Come  in  ! ' 

The  door  was  flung  back,  and  there  stepped  in 
upon  the  mat  a  man  not  particularly  young  for  a 
lover,  nor  particularly  mature  for  a  person  of  affairs 
— each  of  which  functions  he  in  some  degree  dis- 
charged. There  was  reserve  in  his  glance,  and 
restraint  upon  his  mouth.  He  carried  a  perforated 
lantern  which  hung  upon  a  swivel  and,  wheeling  as  it 
dangled,  marked  grotesque  shapes  upon  the  shadier 
part  of  the  walls  and  ceiling. 

He  said  that  he  had  looked  in  on  his  way  down 
to  tell  her  that  they  did  not  expect  her  father  to  make 
up  his  contract  if  he  was  not  well.  Mr.  Melbury 
would  give  him  another  week,  and  they  would  go 
their  journey  with  a  short  load  that  day. 

*  They  are  done,'  said  Marty,  'and  lying  in  the 
cart-house.* 

*  Done  ?  '  he  repeated.  *  Your  father  has  not  been 
too  ill  to  work  after  all,  then  ? ' 

She  made  some  evasive  reply.  'I'll  show  you 
where  they  be,  if  you  are  going  down,*  she  added. 

They  went  out  and  walked  together,  the  pattern  of 
the  air-holes  in  the  top  of  the  lantern  rising  now  to 
the  mist  overhead,  where  they  appeared  of  giant  size, 
as  if  reaching  the  tent-shaped  sky.  They  had  no 
remarks  to  make  to  each  other,  and  they  uttered 
none.  Hardly  anything  could  be  more  isolated  or 
more  self-contained  than  the  lives  of  these  two  walk- 
ing here  in  the  lonely  hour  before  day,  when  grey 
shades,  material  and  mental,  are  so  very  grey.  And 
yet  their  lonely  courses  formed  no  detached  design  at  ^  U 
all,  but  were  part  of  the  pattern  in  the  great  web  of 
human  doings  then  weaving  in  both  hemispheres  from 
the  White  Sea  to  Cape  Horn. 

The   shed  was  reached,  and  she  pointed  out  the 

21 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

spars.  Winterborne  regarded  them  silently;  then 
looked  at  her. 

*  Now,  Marty,  I  believe '  he  said,  and  shook 

his  head. 

*  What  ?  * 

*  That  you've  done  the  work  yourself!  * 

*  Don't  you  tell  anybody,  will  you,  Mr.  Winter- 
borne  ? '  she  pleaded  by  way  of  answer.  *  Because  I 
am  afraid  Mr.  Melbury  may  refuse  the  work  if  he 
knows  it  is  mine.' 

'  But  how  could  you  learn  to  do  it  ?     'Tis  a  trade  ! ' 

*  Trade ! '  said  she.  '  I'd  be  bound  to  learn  it  in 
two  hours.' 

*  O  no,  you  wouldn't,  Miss  Marty.'  Winterborne 
held  down  his  lantern,  and  examined  the  cleanly  split 
hazels  as  they  lay.  *  Marty,'  he  said  with  dry  admira- 
tion, *  your  father  with  his  forty  years  of  practice  never 
made  a  spar  better  than  that.  They  are  too  good  for 
the  thatching  of  houses ;  they  are  good  enough  for 
the  furniture.  But  I  won't  tell.  Let  me  look  at  your 
hands — your  poor  hands  ! ' 

He  had  a  kindly  manner  of  quietly  severe  tone ; 
and  when  she  seemed  reluctant  to  show  her  hands  he 
took  hold  of  one  and  examined  it  as  if  it  were  his  own. 
Her  fingers  were  blistered. 

*  They'll  get  harder  in  time,'  she  said.  *  For  if 
father  continues  ill  I  shall  have  to  go  on  wi'  it.  Now 
I'll  help  put  'em  up  in  waggon.* 

Winterborne  without  speaking  set  down  his 
lantern,  lifted  her  like  a  baby  as  she  was  about  to 
stoop  over  the  bundles,  dumped  her  down  behind 
him,   and   began   throwing   up   the   bundles   himself. 

*  Rather   than    you   should    do    it    I    will,'    he    said. 

*  But  the  men  will  be  here  directly.  Why,  Marty — 
whatever  has  happened  to  your  head  ?  Lord,  it  has 
shrunk  to  nothing — it  looks  like  an  apple  upon  a 
gate-post !  * 

Her  heart  swelled,  and  she  could  not  speak.  At 
length  she  managed  to  groan,  looking  on  the  ground, 

22 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

*  I've  made  myself  ugly — and  hateful — that's  what  Tve 
done ! ' 

*  No,  no/  he  answered.     *  You've  only  cut  your 
hair — I  see  now.' 

'  Then  why  must  you  needs  say  that  about  apples 
and  gate-posts  ? ' 

*  Let  me  see  !  *     He  moved  to  lift  her  bonnet. 
But  she  ran  off  into  the  gloom  of  the  sluggish 

dawn.  He  did  not  attempt  to  follow  her.  When  she 
reached  her  father's  door  she  stood  on  the  step  and 
looked  back.  Mr.  Melbury's  men  had  arrived  and 
were  loading  up  the  spars ;  and  their  foggy  lanterns 
appeared  from  the  distance  at  which  she  stood  to  have 
wan  circles  round  them,  like  eyes  weary  with  watch- 
ing. She  observed  them  for  a  few  seconds  as  they  set 
about  harnessing  the  horses,  and  then  went  indoors. 


IV 

There  was  now  a  distinct  manifestation  of  morning  in 
the  air,  and  presently  the  bleared  white  visage  of  a 
sunless  winter  day  emerged  like  a  dead-born  child. 
The  woodlanders  everywhere  had  already  bestirred 
themselves,  rising  this  month  of  the  year  at  the  far 
less  dreary  time  of  absolute  darkness.  It  had  been 
above  an  hour  earlier,  before  a  single  bird  had 
untucked  his  head,  that  twenty  lights  were  struck  in 
as  many  bedrooms,  twenty  pairs  of  shutters  opened, 
and  twenty  pairs  of  eyes  stretched  to  the  sky  to  fore- 
cast the  weather  for  the  day. 

Owls  that  had  been  catching  mice  in  the  out- 
houses, rabbits  that  had  been  eating  the  winter-greens 
in  the  gardens,  and  stoats  that  had  been  sucking  the 
blood  of  the  rabbits,  discerning  that  their  human 
neighbours  were  on  the  move  discreetly  withdrew 
from  publicity,  and  were  seen  and  heard  no  more  till 
nightfall. 

The  daylight  revealed  the  whole  of  Mr.  Melbury's 
homestead,  of  which  the  waggon-sheds  had  been  an 
outlying  erection.  It  formed  three  sides  of  an  open 
quadrangle,  and  consisted  of  all  sorts  of  buildings, 
the  largest  and  central  one  being  the  dwelling  itself. 
The  fourth  side  of  the  quadrangle  was  the  public 
road. 

It  was  a  dwelling-house  of  respectable,  roomy, 
almost  dignified  aspect ;  which,  taken  with  the  fact 
that  there  were  the  remains  of  other  such  buildings 
hereabout,  indicated  that  Little  Hintock  had  at  some 

34 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

time  or  other  been  of  greater  importance  than  now. 
The  house  was  of  no  marked  antiquity,  yet  of  a  well- 
advanced  age ;  older  than  a  stale  novelty,  but  no 
canonized  antique ;  faded,  not  hoary ;  looking  at  you 
from  the  still  distinct  middle-distance  of  the  early 
Georgian  time,  and  awakening  on  that  account  the 
instincts  of  reminiscence  more  decidedly  than  the 
remoter,  and  far  grander,  memorials  which  have  to 
speak  from  the  misty  reaches  of  medisevalism.  The 
faces,  dress,  passions,  gratitudes,  and  revenges  of  the 
great-great-grandfathers  and  grandmothers  who  had 
been  the  first  to  gaze  from  those  rectangular  windows, 
and  had  stood  under  that  keystoned  doorway,  could 
be  divined  and  measured  by  homely  standards  of 
to-day.  It  was  a  house  in  whose  reverberations 
queer  old  personal  tales  were  yet  audible  if  properly 
listened  for ;  and  not,  as  with  those  of  the  castle  and 
cloister,  silent  beyond  the  possibility  of  echo. 

The  garden-front  remained  much  as  it  had  always 
been,  and  there  was  a  porch  and  entrance  that  way. 
But  the  principal  house-door  opened  on  the  square 
yard  or  quadrangle  towards  the  road,  formerly  a 
regular  carriage  entrance,  though  the  middle  of  the 
area  was  now  made  use  of  for  stacking  timber, 
faggots,  hurdles,  and  other  products  of  the  wood.  It 
was  divided  from  the  lane  by  a  lichen-coated  wall,  in 
which  hung  a  pair  of  gates,  flanked  by  piers  out  of 
the  perpendicular,  with  a  round  white  ball  on  the 
top  of  each. 

The  building  on  the  left  of  the  inclosure  was  a 
long-backed  erection,  now  used  for  spar-making,  saw- 
ing, crib-framing,  and  copse-ware  manufacture  in 
general.  Opposite  were  the  waggon-sheds  where 
Marty  had  deposited  her  spars. 

Here  Winterborne  had  remained  after  the  girl's 
abrupt  departure,  to  see  that  the  loads  were  properly 
made  up.  Winterborne  was  connected  with  the  Mel- 
bury  family  in  various  ways.  In  addition  to  the  senti- 
mental relationship  which  arose  from  his  father  having 

25 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

been  the  first  Mrs.  Melbury's  lover,  Winterborne's 
aunt  had  married  and  emigrated  with  the  brother  of 
the  timber-merchant  many  years  before — an  alliance 
that  was  sufficient  to  place  Winterborne,  though  the 
poorer,  on  a  footing  of  social  intimacy  with  the 
Melburys.  As  in  most  villages  so  secluded  as  this, 
intermarriages  were  of  Hapsburgian  frequency  among 
the  inhabitants,  and  there  were  hardly  two  houses  in 
Little  Hintock  unrelated  by  some  matrimonial  tie 
or  other. 

For  this  reason  a  curious  kind  of  partnership 
existed  between  Melbury  and  the  younger  man — a 
partnership  based  upon  an  unwritten  code,  by  which 
each  acted  in  the  way  he  thought  fair  towards  the 
other,  on  a  give-and-take  principle.  Melbury,  with 
his  timber  and  copse-ware  business,  found  that  the 
weight  of  his  labour  came  in  winter  and  spring. 
Winterborne  was  in  the  apple  and  cider  trade,  and 
his  requirements  in  cartage  and  other  work  came  in 
the  autumn  of  each  year.  Hence  horses,  waggons, 
and  in  some  degree  men,  were  handed  over  to  him 
when  the  apples  began  to  fall ;  he,  in  return,  lending 
his  assistance  to  Melbury  in  the  busiest  wood-cutting 
season,  as  now. 

Before  he  had  left  the  shed  a  boy  came  from  the 
house  to  ask  him  to  remain  till  Mr.  Melbury  had  seen 
him.  Winterborne  thereupon  crossed  over  to  the 
spar-house  where  some  journeymen  were  already  at 
work,  two  of  them  being  travelling  spar-makers  from 
Stagfoot  Lane,  who,  when  the  fall  of  the  leaf  began, 
made  their  appearance  regularly,  and  when  winter 
was  over  disappeared  in  silence  till  the  season  came 
again. 

Firewood  was  the  one  thing  abundant  in  Little 
Hintock ;  and  a  blaze  of  gad-ends  made  the  outhouse 
gay  with  its  light,  which  vied  with  that  of  the  day 
as  yet.  In  the  hollow  shades  of  the  roof  could  be 
seen  dangling  and  etiolated  arms  of  ivy  which  had 
crept  through  the  joints  of  the  tiles  and  were  groping 

26 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

in  vain  for  some  support,  their  leaves  being  dwarfed 
and  sickly  for  want  of  sunlight ;  others  were  pushing 
in  with  such  force  at  the  eaves  as  to  lift  from  their 
supports  the  shelves  that  were  fixed  there. 

Besides  the  itinerant  journey-workers  there  were 
also  present  John  Upjohn,  Melbury's  regular  man ; 
a  neighbour  engaged  in  the  hollow-turnery  trade  ;  old 
Timothy  Tangs  and  young  Timothy  Tangs,  top  and 
bottom  sawyers  at  work  in  Mr.  Melbury's  pit  outside ; 
Farmer  Cawtree,  who  kept  the  cider-house,  and 
Robert  Creedle,  an  old  man  who  worked  for  Winter- 
borne,  and  stood  warming  his  hands ;  these  latter 
having  been  enticed  in  by  the  ruddy  blaze,  though 
they  had  no  particular  business  there.  None  of  them 
calls  for  any  remark,  except  perhaps  Creedle.  To 
have  completely  described  him  it  would  have  been 
necessary  to  write  a  military  memoir,  for  he  wore 
under  his  smock-frock  a  cast-off  soldier's  jacket  that 
had  seen  hot  service,  its  collar  showing  just  above  the 
flap  of  the  frock ;  also  a  hunting  memoir,  to  include 
the  top-boots  that  he  had  picked  up  by  chance ;  also 
chronicles  of  voyaging  and  shipwreck,  for  his  pocket- 
knife  had  been  given  him  by  a  weather-beaten  sailor. 
But  Creedle  carried  about  with  him  on  his  uneventful 
rounds  these  silent  testimonies  of  war,  sport,  and 
adventure,  and  thought  nothing  of  their  associations 
or  their  stories. 

Copse-work,  as  it  was  called,  being  an  occupation 
which  the  secondary  intelligence  of  the  hands  and 
arms  could  carry  on  without  the  sovereign  attention 
of  the  head,  allowed  the  minds  of  its  professors  to 
wander  considerably  from  the  objects  before  them  ; 
hence  the  tales,  chronicles,  and  ramifications  of  family 
history  which  were  recounted  here  were  of  a  very 
exhaustive  kind. 

Winterborne,  seeing  that  Melbury  had  not  arrived, 
stepped  back  again  outside  the  door;  and  the  con- 
versation interrupted  by  his  momentary  presence 
flowed  anew,  reaching  his  ears  as  an  accompaniment 

27 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

to  the  regular  dripping  of  the  fog  from  the  plantation 
boughs  around. 

The  topic  at  present  handled  was  a  highly  popular 
and  frequent  one — the  personal  character  of  Mrs. 
Charmond,  the  owner  of  the  surrounding  glades  and 
groves. 

'  My  brother-in-law  told  me,  and  I  have  no  reason 
to  doubt  it,'  said  Creedle,  *  that  she'll  sit  down  to  her 
dinner  with  a  gown  hardly  higher  than  her  elbows. 
**  O,  you  wicked  woman ! "  he  said  to  hisself  when 
he  first  see  her,  **you  go  to  the  Table  o'  Sundays, 
and  kneel,  as  if  your  knee-jints  were  greased  with 
very  saint's  anointment,  and  tell  off  your  hear-us- 
good-Lords  as  pat  as  a  business-man  counting  money ; 
and  yet  you  can  eat  your  victuals  a-stript  to  such  a 
wanton  figure  as  that!"  Whether  she's  a  reformed 
character  by  this  time  I  can't  say ;  but  I  don't  care 
who  the  man  is,  that's  how  she  went  on  when  my 
brother-in-law  lived  there.* 

*  Did  she  do  it  in  her  husband's  time  ?  * 

•That    I    don't   know  —  hardly,    I    should    think, 

considering   his  temper.      Ah !'      Here  Creedle 

threw  grieved  remembrances  into  physical  form  by 
resigning  his  head  to  obliquity  and  letting  his  eyes 
water.  '  That  man  !  "  Not  if  the  angels  of  heaven 
come  down,  Creedle,"  he  said,  "shall  you  do  another 
day's  work  for  me  I  "  Yes — he  would  as  soon  take 
a  winged  angel's  name  in  vain  as  yours  or  mine! 
Well,  now  I  must  get  these  spars  home-along,  and 
to-morrow,  thank  God,  I  must  see  about  using  'em.' 

An  old  woman  now  entered  upon  the  scene.  She 
was  Mr.  Melbury's  servant,  and  passed  a  great  part 
of  her  time  in  crossing  the  yard  between  the  house- 
door  and  the  spar-shed,  whither  she  had  come  now 
for  fuel.  She  had  two  facial  aspects — one,  of  a  soft 
and  flexible  kind,  which  she  used  indoors ;  the  other, 
with  stiff  lines  and  corners,  which  she  assumed  when 
addressing  the  men  outside. 

*Ah,    Grammer   Oliver,*   said    John    Upjohn,    *it 

V 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

do  do  my  heart  good  to  see  a  old  woman  like  you 
so  dapper  and  stirring,  when  I  bear  in  mind  that, 
after  fifty,  one  year  counts  as  two  did  afore !  But 
your  smoke  didn't  rise  this  morning  till  twenty 
minutes  past  seven  by  my  beater;  and  that's  late, 
Grammer  Oliver.* 

'  If  you  was  a  full-sized  man,  John,  I  might  take 
notice  of  your  scornful  meanings.  But  really  a 
woman  couldn't  feel  hurt  if  such  smallness  were  to 
spit  fire  and  brimstone  itself  at  her.  Here,*  she 
added,  holding  out  a  spar-gad  to  one  of  the  work- 
men,   from    which    dangled    a    long    black-pudding, 

*  here's  something  for  thy  breakfast,  and  if  you  want 
tea  you  must  fetch  it  from  indoors.* 

'  Mr.  Melbury  is  late  this  morning,'  said  the 
bottom-sawyer. 

*  Yes.  'Twas  a  dark  dawn,*  said  Mrs.  Oliver. 
'  Even  when  I  opened  the  door,  so  late  as  I  was, 
you  couldn't  have  told  poor  men  from  gentlemen, 
or  John  from  a  reasonable-sized  object.  And  I 
don't  think  maister's  slept  at  all  well  to-night.  He's 
anxious  about  his  daughter ;  and  I  know  what  that  is, 
for  I've  cried  bucketfuls  for  my  own.* 

When  the  old  woman  had  gone  Creedle  said — 

*  He'll  fret  his  gizzard  green  if  he  don't  soon 
hear  from  that  maid  of  his.  Well,  learning  is  better 
than  houses  and  lands.  But  to  keep  a  maid  at  school 
till  she  is  taller  out  of  pattens  than  her  mother  was 
in  'em — 'tis  a  tempting  o'  Providence.* 

*  It  seems  no  time  ago  that  she  was  a  little 
play  ward  girl,'  said  young  Timothy  Tangs. 

*  I  can  mind  her  mother,*  said  the  hollow-turner. 

*  Alway  a  teuny,  delicate  piece ;  her  touch  upon 
your  hand  was  like  the  passing  of  wind.  She  was 
inoculated  for  the  small-pox  and  had  it  beautiful 
fine,  just  about  the  time  that  I  was  out  of  my  ap- 
prenticeship— ay,  and  a  long  apprenticeship  'twas. 
1  served  that  master  of  mine  six  years  and  three 
hundred  and  fourteen  days.* 

29 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

The  hollow-turner  pronounced  the  days  with  em- 
phasis, as  if,  considering  their  number,  they  were  a 
rather  more  remarkable  fact  than  the  years. 

*  Mr.    Winterborne's    father   walked   with    her   at 

one    time,*    said    old    Timothy    Tangs ;     '  but    Mr. 

/f"     Melbury  won  her.       She  was  a  child  of  a  woman, 

.  ^      and   would   cry   like   rain    if    so   be   he   huffed   her. 

Whenever  she  and  her  husband  came  to  a  puddle 

f  in  their  walks  together  he'd  take  her  up  like  a  half- 

Z^        penny   doll  and  put  her  over  without  dirting  her  a 

/       speck.       And  if  he  keeps  the  daughter  so  long  at 

^r        boarding-school  he'll  make  her  as  nesh  as  her  mother 

»  was.     But  here  he  comes.* 

Just  before  this  moment  Winterborne  had  seen 
Melbury  crossing  the  court  from  his  door.  He 
was  carrying  an  open  letter  in  his  hand,  and  came 
straight  to  Winterborne.  His  gloom  of  the  pre- 
ceding night  had  quite  gone. 

'I'd  no  sooner  made  up  my  mind,  Giles,  to  go 
and  see  why  Grace  didn't  come  or  write  than  I  get 
a  letter  from  her.  "  My  dear  father,"  says  she,  "I'm 
coming  home  to-morrow  (that's  to-day),  but  I  didn't 
think  it  worth  while  to  write  long  beforehand." 
The  little  rascal,  and  didn't  she  !  Now,  Giles,  as 
you  are  going  to  Sherton  market  to-day  with  your 
apple-trees,  why  not  join  me  and  Grace  there,  and 
we'll  drive  home  all  together  .<* ' 

He  made  the  proposal  with  cheerful  energy ;  he 
was  hardly  the  same  man  as  the  man  of  the  small 
dark  hours.  Even  among  the  moodiest  the  tendency 
to  be  cheered  is  stronger  than  the  tendency  to  be 
cast  down  ;  and  a  soul's  specific  gravity  constantly 
re-asserts  itself  as  less  than  that  of  the  sea  of  troubles 
into  which  it  is  thrown. 

Winterborne,  though  not  demonstrative,  replied 
to  this  suggestion  with  alacrity.  There  was  not 
much  doubt  that  Marty's  grounds  for  cutting  off 
her  hair  were  substantial  enough,  if  this  man's  eyes 
had  been  a  reason  for  keeping  it  on.      As  for  the 

50 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

timber-merchant,  his  invitation  had  been  given  solely 
in  pursuance  of  his  scheme  for  uniting  the  pair.  He 
had  made  up  his  mind  to  the  course  as  a  duty,  and 
was  strenuously  bent  upon  following  it  out. 

Accompanied  by  Winterborne  he  now  turned  to- 
wards the  door  of  the  spar-house,  when  his  footsteps 
were  heard  by  the  men  as  aforesaid. 

*  Well,  John,  and  Robert,'  he  said,  nodding  as  he 
entered.     *  A  rimy  morning.* 

'  'Tis,  sir ! '  said  Creedle  energetically,  for  not 
having  as  yet  been  able  to  summon  force  sufficient 
to  go  away  and  begin  work  he  felt  the  necessity  of 
throwing  some  into  his  speech.  *  I  don't  care  who 
the  man  is,  'tis  the  rimiest  morning  we've  had  this 
fall.' 

'  I  heard  you  wondering  why  I've  kept  my 
daughter  so  long  at  boarding-school,'  said  Mr. 
Melbury,  looking  up  from  the  letter  which  he  was 
reading  anew  by  the  fire,  and  turning  to  them  with 
the  suddenness  that  was  a  trait  in  him.  *Hey?' 
he  asked  with  affected  shrewdness.  *  But  you  did, 
you  know.  Well  now,  though  it  is  my  own  business 
more  than  anybody  else's,  I'll  tell  ye.  When  I  was 
a  boy,  another  boy — the  pa'son's  son — along  with 
a  lot  of  others,  asked  me  **  Who  dragged  Whom 
round  the  walls  of  What  ? "  and  I  said,  ''Sam  Barret, 
who  dragged  his  wife  in  a  wheeled  chair  round  the 
tower  when  she  went  to  be  churched."  They 
laughed  at  me  so  much  that  I  went  home  and 
couldn't  sleep  for  shame ;  and  I  cried  that  night 
till  my  pillow  was  wet ;  till  I  thought  to  myself — 
**They  may  laugh  at  me  for  my  ignorance,  but 
that  was  father's  fault,  and  none  o'  my  making,  and 
I  must  bear  it.  But  they  shall  never  laugh  at  my 
children,  if  I  have  any  ;  I'll  starve  first !  "  Thank 
God  I've  been  able  to  keep  her  at  school  at  the 
figure  of  near  a  hundred  a  year  ;  and  her  scholar- 
ship is  such  that  she  has  stayed  on  as  governess 
for  a  time.      Let  'em  laugh  now  if  they  can :    Mrs. 

31 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

Charmond  herself  is  not   better   informed   than   my 
girl  Grace.* 

There  was  something  between  high  indifference 
and  humble  emotion  in  his  delivery,  which  made  it 
difficult  for  them  to  reply.  Winterborne  s  interest 
was  of  a  kind  which  did  not  show  itself .  in  words; 
listening,  he  stood  by  the  fire,  mechanically  stirring 
the  embers  with  a  spar-gad. 

*  You'll  be  ready,  then,  Giles  ?  *  Melbury  continued, 
awaking  from  a  reverie.  *Well,  what  was  the  latest 
news  at  Shottsford  yesterday,  Mr.  Cawtree  ? ' 

*  Oh,  well,  Shottsford  is  Shottsford  still — you  can*t 
victual  your  carcase  there  unless  you've  got  money; 
and  you  can't  buy  a  cup  of  genuine  there,  whether 
or  no.  .  .  .  But  as  the  saying  is,  '*  Go  abroad  and 
you'll  hear  news  of  home."  It  seems  that  our  new 
neighbour,  this  young  Doctor  What's-his-name,  is  a 
strange,  deep,  perusing  gentleman  ;  and  there's  good 
reason  for  supposing  he  has  sold  his  soul  to  the 
wicked  one.* 

*  'Od  name  it  all,'  murmured  the  timber-merchant, 
unimpressed  by  the  news  but  reminded  of  other  things 
by  the  subject  of  it;  *  I've  got  to  meet  a  gentleman 
this  very  morning,  and  yet  I've  planned  to  go  to 
Sherton  Abbas  for  the  maid.' 

'  I  won't  praise  the  doctor's  wisdom  till  I  hear  what 
sort  of  bargain  he's  made,'  said  the  top-sawyer. 

*  'Tis  only  an  old  woman's  tale,'  said  Cawtree. 
*  But  it  seems  that  he  wanted  certain  books  on  some 
mysterious  black  art,  and  in  order  that  the  people 
hereabout  should  not  know  anything  about  them  he 
ordered  'em  direct  from  London,  and  not  from  the 
Sherton  bookseller.  The  parcel  was  delivered  by 
mistake  at  the  pa'son's,  and  as  he  wasn't  at  home 
his  wife  opened  it,  and  went  into  hysterics  when  she 
read  'em,  thinking  her  husband  had  turned  heathen, 
and  'twould  be  the  ruin  of  the  children.  But  when 
he  came  he  knew  no  more  about  'em  than  she ;  and 
found  they  were  this  Mr.  Fitzpiers's  property.     So  he 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

wrote  "  Beware ! "  outside,  and  sent  *em  on  by  the 
sexton.' 

*  He  must  be  a  curious  young  man/  mused  the 
hollow-turner. 

*  He  must,'  said  Timothy  Tangs. 

*  Nonsense,'  said  Mr.  Melbury  ;  *  he's  only  a  gentle- 
man fond  of  science  and  philosophy,  and  poetry,  and, 
in  fact,  every  kind  of  knowledge ;  and  being  lonely 
here  he  passes  his  time  in  making  such  matters  his 
hobby.' 

*Well,'  said  old  Timothy,  *'tis  a  strange  thing 
about  doctors  that  the  worse  they  be  the  better  they 
be.  I  mean  that  if  you  hear  anything  of  this  sort 
about  'em  ten  to  one  they  can  cure  'ee  as  nobody  else 
can.' 

'  True,  said  Cawtree  emphatically.  *  And  for  my 
part  I  shall  take  my  custom  from  old  Jones  and  go  to 
this  one  directly  I've  anything  the  matter  inside  me. 
That  last  medicine  old  Jones  gave  me  had  no  taste  in 
it  at  all' 

Mr.  Melbury,  as  became  a  well-informed  man,  did 
not  listen  to  these  recitals,  being  moreover  preoccupied 
with  the  business  appointment  which  had  come  into 
his  head.  He  walked  up  and  down  looking  on  the 
floor — his  usual  custom  when  undecided.  That  stiff- 
ness about  the  arm,  hip,  and  knee-joint,  which  was 
apparent  when  he  walked,  was  the  net  product  of  the 
divers  sprains  and  over -exertions  that  had  been 
required  of  him  in  handling  trees  and  timber  when  a 
young  man,  for  he  was  of  the  sort  called  self-made, 
and  had  worked  hard.  He  knew  the  origin  of  every 
one  of  these  cramps  ;  that  in  his  left  shoulder  had 
come  of  carrying  a  pollard,  unassisted,  from  Tutcombe 
Bottom  home ;  that  in  one  leg  was  caused  by  the 
crash  of  an  elm  against  it  when  they  were  felling ; 
that  in  the  other  was  from  lifting  a  bole.  On  many 
a  morrow,  after  wearying  himself  by  these  prodigious 
muscular  efforts,  he  had  risen  from  his  bed  fresh  as 
usual ;    and  confident   in   the  recuperative  power  of 

33 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

his  youth  he  had  repeated  the  strains  anew.  But 
treacherous  Time  had  been  only  hiding  ill-results 
wheH  they  could  be  guarded  against  for  greater  effect 
when  they  could  not.  Now  in  his  declining  years  the 
store  had  been  unfolded  in  the  form  of  rheumatisms, 
pricks,  and  spasms,  in  every  one  of  which  Melbury 
recognized  some  act  which,  had  its  consequences  been 
contemporaneously  made  known,  he  would  wisely  have 
abstained  from  repeating. 

On  a  summons  by  Grammer  Oliver  to  breakfast 
he  went  to  the  kitchen,  where  the  family  breakfasted 
in  winter  to  save  house-labour ;  and  sitting  down  by 
the  fire  looked  a  long  time  at  the  pair  of  dancing 
shadows  cast  by  each  fire-iron  and  dog-knob  on  the 
whitewashed  chimney  corner — a  yellow  one  from  the 
window,  and  a  blue  one  from  the  fire. 

'  I  don't  quite  know  what  to  do  to-day,'  he  said  to 
his  wife  at  last.  *  I've  recollected  that  I  promised  to 
meet  Mrs.  Charmond's  steward  in  Round  Wood  at 
twelve  o'clock,  and  yet  I  want  to  go  for  Grace.* 

'Why  not  let  Giles  fetch  her  by  himself .'*  'Twill 
bring  'em  together  all  the  quicker.' 

*  I  could  do  that — but  I  always  have  gone,  without 
fail,  every  time  hitherto ;  and  perhaps  she'll  be  dis- 
appointed if  I  stay  away.* 

'  You  may  be  disappointed,  but  I  don't  think  she 
will,  if  you  send  Giles,'  said  Mrs.  Melbury  dryly. 

*  Very  well — I'll  send  him.' 

Melbury  was  often  persuaded  by  the  quiet  of  his 
wife's  words  when  strenuous  argument  would  hav^ 
had  no  effect.  This  second  Mrs.  Melbury  was  2^ 
placid  woman  who  had  been  nurse  to  his  child  Grace 
after  her  mother's  death.  Little  Grace  had  clung 
to  the  nurse  with  much  affection ;  and  ultimately 
Melbury,  in  dread  lest  the  only  woman  who  cared  for 
the  girl  should  be  induced  to  leave  her,  persuaded 
the  mild  Lucy  to  marry  him.  The  arrangement — for 
it  was  little  more — had  worked  satisfactorily  enough ; 
Grace  had  thriven,  and  Melbury  had  not  repented. 

34 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

He  returned  to  the  spar-house  and  found  Giles 
near  at  hand,  to  whom  he  explained  the  change  of 
plan.  'As  she  won't  arrive  till  five  o'clock  you  can 
get  your  business  very  well  over  in  time  to  receive 
her,'  said  Melbury.  *  The  green  gig  will  do  for  her  ; 
you'll  spin  along  quicker  with  that,  and  won't  be  late 
upon  the  road.  Her  boxes  can  be  called  for  by  one 
of  the  waggons.' 

Winterborne,  knowing  nothing  of  the  timber- 
merchant's  restitutory  aims,  quietly  thought  this  to  be 
a  kindly  chance.  Wishing,  even  more  than  her  father, 
to  despatch  his  apple-tree  business  in  the  market 
before  Grace's  arrival,  he  prepared  to  start  at  once. 

Melbury  was  careful  that  the  turn-out  should  be 
seemly.  The  gig- wheels,  for  instance,  were  not  always 
washed  during  winter- time  before  a  journey,  the 
muddy  roads  rendering  that  labour  useless ;  but  they 
were  washed  to-day.  The  harness  was  polished,  and 
when  the  grey  horse  had  been  put  in,  and  Winterborne 
was  in  his  seat  ready  to  start,  Mr.  Melbury  stepped 
out  with  a  blacking- brush  and  with  his  own  hands 
touched  over  the  yellow  hoofs  of  the  animal. 

*  You  see,  Giles,'  he  said  as  he  blacked,  'coming 
from  a  fashionable  school  she  might  feel  shocked  at 
the  homeliness  of  home ;  and  'tis  these  little  things 
that  catch  a  dainty  woman's  eye  if  they  are  neglected. 
We,  living  here  alone,  don't  notice  how  the  whitey- 
brown  creeps  out  of  the  earth  over  us ;  but  she,  fresh 
from  a  city — why,  she'll  notice  everything  I ' 

'That  she  will,'  said  Giles. 

*  And  scorn  us  if  we  don't  mind.* 

*  Not  scorn  us.' 

'  No,  no,  no — that's  only  words.  She's  too  good 
a  girl  to  do  that.  But  when  we  consider  what  she 
knows,  and  what  she  has  seen  since  she  last  saw  us, 
'tis  as  well  to  meet  her  views.  Why,  'tis  a  year  since 
she  was  in  this  old  place,  owing  to  her  going  abroad 
in  the  summer  ;  and  naturally  we  shall  look  small,  just 
at  first — I  only  say  just  at  first.* 

35 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

Mr.  Melbury's  tone  evinced  a  certain  exultation 
in  the  very  sense  of  that  inferiority  he  affected  to 
deplore ;  for  this  advanced  and  refined  being,  was  she 
not  his  own  all  the  time  ?  Not  so  Giles ;  he  felt 
doubtful.  He  looked  at  his  clothes  with  misgiving ; 
but  said  nothing. 

It  was  his  custom  during  the  planting  season  to 
carry  a  specimen  apple-tree  to  market  with  him  as  an 
advertisement  of  what  he  dealt  in.  This  had  been 
tied  across  the  gig ;  and  mounting  in  front  he  drove 
away,  the  twigs  nodding  with  each  step  of  the  horse. 
Melbury  went  indoors.  Before  the  gig  had  passed 
out  of  sight  Mr.  Melbury  reappeared  and  shouted 
after — 

*  Here,  Giles,*  he  said,  breathlessly  following  with 
some  wraps,  *  it  may  be  very  chilly  to-night,  and  she 
may  want  something  extra  about  her.  And  Giles,'  he 
added,  when  the  young  man  put  the  horse  in  motion 
once  more,  *  tell  her  that  I  should  have  come  myself, 
but  I  had  particular  business  with  Mrs.  Charmond's 
agent  which  prevented  me.     Don't  forget.* 

He  watched  Winterborne  out  of  sight  under  the 
boughs,  where  cobwebs  glistened  in  the  now  clearing 
air,  lengthening  and  shortening  their  shine  like  elastic 
needles ;  he  saw  the  wood-pigeons  rise  as  Giles  drove 
past  them  ;  and  said  to  himself  with  a  jerk — a  shape 
into  which  emotion  with  him  often  resolved  itself — 
*  There  now,  I  hope  the  two  will  bring  it  to  a  point, 
and  have  done  with  it !  'Tis  a  pity  to  let  such  a  girl 
throw  herself  away  upon  him — a  thousand  pities  I  .  .  , 
And  yet  'tis  my  duty,  for  his  father's  sake.' 


WiNTERBORNE  spcd  on  his  Way  to  Sherton  Abbas 
without  elation  and  without  discomposure.  Had  he 
regarded  his  inner  self  spectacularly,  as  lovers  are  now 
daily  more  wont  to  do,  he  might  have  felt  pride  in  the 
discernment  of  a  somewhat  rare  power  in  him — that 
of  keeping  not  only  judgment  but  emotion  suspended 
in  difficult  cases.     But  he  noted  it  not. 

Arrived  at  the  entrance  to  a  long  flat  lane,  which 
had  taken  the  spirit  out  of  many  a  pedestrian  in  times 
when,  with  the  majority,  to  travel  meant  to  walk,  he 
saw  before  him  the  trim  figure  of  a  young  woman  in 
pattens,  journeying  with  that  steadfast  concentration 
which  means  purpose  and  not  pleasure.  He  was  soon 
near  enough  to  see  that  she  was  Marty  South.  Click 
click,  click  went  the  pattens ;  and  she  did  not  turn  her 
head. 

Yet  she  had  seen  him,  and  shrank  from  being 
overtaken  by  him  thus ;  but  as  it  was  inevitable  she 
braced  herself  up  for  his  inspection  by  closing  her  lips 
so  as  to  make  her  mouth  quite  unemotional,  and  by 
throwing  an  additional  firmness  into  her  tread. 

*  Why  do  you  wear  pattens,  Marty  ?  The  turnpike 
is  clean  enough  although  the  lanes  are  muddy.' 

*  They  save  my  boots.* 

'  But  twelve  miles  in  pattens—  twill  twist  your  feet 
off.     Come,  get  up  and  ride  with  me. 

She  hesitated,  removed  her  pattens,  knocked  the 
gravel  out  of  them  against  the  wheel,  and  mounted  in 
front  of  the  nodding  specimen  apple-tree.     She  had 

37 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

so  arranged  her  bonnet  with  a  full  border  and 
trimmings  that  her  lack  of  long  hair  did  not  much 
injure  her  appearance ;  though  Giles  of  course  saw 
that  it  was  gone,  and  may  have  guessed  her  motive  in 
parting  with  it ;  such  sales,  though  infrequent,  being 
not  unheard-of  in  that  locality. 

But  nature's  adornment  was  still  hard  by — in  fact, 
within  two  feet  of  him.  In  Marty's  basket  was  a 
brown-paper  packet,  and  in  the  packet  the  chestnut 
locks  which,  by  reason  of  the  barber's  request  for 
secrecy,  she  had  not  ventured  to  intrust  to  other 
hands. 

Giles  asked,  with  some  hesitation,  how  her  father 
was  getting  on. 

He  was  better,  she  said ;  he  would  be  able  to 
work  in  a  day  or  two ;  he  would  be  quite  well  but  for 
his  craze  about  the  tree  falling  on  him. 

*  You  know  why  I  don't  ask  for  him  so  often  as  I 
might,  I  suppose  ?  '  said  Winterborne.  *  Or  don't  you 
know  ? ' 

*  I  think  I  do.' 

*  Because  of  the  houses  ? ' 
She  nodded. 

*  Yes.  I  am  afraid  it  may  seem  that  my  anxiety  is 
about  those  houses  which  I  should  lose  by  his  death, 
more  than  about  him.  Marty,  I  do  feel  anxious  about 
the  houses,  since  half  my  income  depends  upon  them ; 
but  I  do  likewise  care  for  him  ;  and  it  almost  seems 
wrong  that  houses  should  be  leased  for  lives,  so  as  to 
lead  to  such  mixed  feelings.' 

*  After  father's  death  they  will  be  Mrs.  Char- 
mond's  ?' 

*  They'll  be  hers.' 

*  They  are  going  to  keep  company  with  my  hair,* 
she  thought. 

Thus  talking  they  reached  the  ancient  town  of 
Sherton  Abbas.  By  no  pressure  would  she  ride  up 
the  street  with  him.  *  That's  the  right  of  another 
woman,*  she  said  with  playful  malice  as  she  put  on 

38 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

her  pattens.  *I  wonder  what  you  are  thinking  of! 
Thank  you  for  the  Hft  in  that  handsome  gig. 
Good-bye. ' 

He  blushed  a  little,  shook  his  head  at  her,  and 
drove  on  ahead  into  the  streets  ;  the  churches,  the 
abbey,  and  other  mediaeval  buildings  on  this  clear 
bright  morning  having  the  linear  distinctness  of  archi- 
tectural drawings,  as  li  the  original  dream  and  vision  of 
the  conceiving  master-mason  were  for  a  brief  hour 
flashed  down  through  the  centuries  to  an  unapprecia- 
tive  age.  Giles  saw  their  eloquent  look  on  this  day 
of  transparency,  but  could  not  construe  it.  He  turned 
into  the  inn-yard. 

Marty,  following  the  same  track,  marched  promptly 
to  the  hairdresser's.  Percomb  was  the  chief  of  his 
trade  in  Sherton  Abbas.  He  had  the  patronage  of 
such  county  off-shoots  as  had  been  obliged  to  seek  the 
shelter  of  small  houses  in  that  venerable  town,  of  the 
local  clergy,  and  so  on ;  for  some  of  whom  he  had 
made  wigs,  while  others  among  them  had  compensated 
for  neglecting  him  in  their  lifetime  by  patronizing  him 
when  they  were  dead,  and  letting  him  shave  their 
corpses.  On  the  strength  of  all  this  he  had  taken 
down  his  pole  and  called  himself  *  Perruquier  to  the 
aristocracy.' 

Nevertheless,  this  sort  of  support  did  not  quite  fill 
his  children's  mouths,  and  they  had  to  be  filled.  So 
behind  his  house  there  was  a  little  yard,  reached  by  a 
passage  from  the  back  street,  and  in  that  yard  was  a 
pole,  and  under  the  pole  a  shop  of  quite  another  de- 
scription than  the  ornamental  one  in  the  front  street. 
Here  on  Saturday  nights  from  seven  till  ten  he  took 
an  almost  innumerable  succession  of  twopences  from 
the  farm-labourers  who  flocked  thither  in  crowds  from 
the  country.     And  thus  he  lived. 

Marty,  of  course,  went  to  the  front  shop,  and 
handed  her  packet  to  him  silently. 

'Thank  you,'  said  the  barber  quite  joyfully.  *I 
hardly  expected  it  after  what  you  said  last  night.* 

39 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

She  turned  aside,  while  a  tear  welled  up  in  each  eye 
at  this  reminder. 

*  Nothing  of  what  I  told  you,'  he  whispered.  *  But 
I  can  trust  you,  I  see.' 

She  had  now  reached  the  end  of  this  distressing 
business,  and  went  listlessly  along  the  street  to  attend 
to  other  errands.  These  occupied  her  till  four  o'clock, 
at  which  time  she  recrossed  the  market-place.  It  was 
impossible  to  avoid  rediscovering  Winterborne  every 
time  she  passed  that  way,  for  standing,  as  he  always 
did  at  this  season  of  the  year,  with  his  specimen  apple- 
tree  in  the  midst,  the  boughs  rosf^  above  the  heads  of 
the  farmers,  and  brought  a  delightful  suggestion  of 
orchards  into  the  heart  of  the  town. 

When  her  eye  fell  upon  him  for  the  last  time  he 
was  standing  somewhat  apart,  holding  the  tree  like  an 
ensign,  and  looking  on  the  ground  instead  of  pushing 
his  produce  as  he  ought  to  have  been  doing.  He  was, 
in  fact,  not  a  very  successful  seller  either  of  his  trees 
or  of  his  cider,  his  habit  of  speaking  his  mind  when  he 
spoke  at  all  militating  against  this  branch  of  his 
business. 

While  she  regarded  him  he  lifted  his  eyes  in  a 
direction  away  from  Marty,  and  his  face  kindled  with 
recognition  and  surprise.  She  followed  his  gaze  and 
saw  walking  across  to  him  a  flexible  young  creature  in 
whom  she  perceived  the  features  of  her  she  had  known 
as  Miss  Grace  Melbury,  but  now  looking  glorified  and 
refined  to  much  above  her  former  level.  Winterborne, 
being  fixed  to  the  spot  by  his  apple-tree,  could  not 
advance  to  meet  her :  he  held  out  his  spare  hand  with 
his  hat  in  it,  and  with  some  embarrassment  beheld 
her  coming  on  tip-toe  through  the  mud  to  the  middle 
of  the  square  where  he  stood. 

Miss  Melbury,  as  Marty  could  see,  had  not  been 
expected  by  Giles  so  early.  Indeed,  her  father  had 
named  five  o'clock  as  her  probable  time,  for  which 
reason  that  hour  had  been  looming  out  all  the  day  in 
his  forward  perspective  like  an  important  edifice  on  a 

40 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

dull  plain.  Now  here  she  was  come,  he  knew  not 
how,  and  his  arranged  welcome  stultified. 

His  face  became  gloomy  at  her  necessity  for  step- 
ping into  the  road,  and  more  still  at  the  little  look  of 
shamefacedness  she  showed  at  having  to  perform  the 
meeting  with  him  under  an  apple-tree  ten  feet  high  in 
the  middle  of  the  market-place.  Having  had  occasion 
to  take  off  the  new  gloves  she  had  bought  to  come 
home  in  she  held  out  to  him  a  hand  graduating  from 
pink  at  the  tips  of  the  fingers  to  white  at  the  palm ; 
and  the  reception  formed  a  scene,  with  the  tree  over 
their  heads,  which  was  not  by  any  means  an  ordinary 
one  in  town  streets. 

The  greeting  in  her  looks  and  on  her  lips  had  a 
restrained  shape,  which  perhaps  was  not  unnatural. 
For  true  it  was  that  Giles  Winterborne,  though  well- 
attired  and  well-mannered  for  a  yeoman,  looked  rough 
beside  her.  It  had  sometimes  dimly  occurred  to  him, 
in  his  ruminating  silences  at  Little  Hintock,  that  ex- 
ternal phenomena — such  as  the  lowness  or  height  or 
colour  of  a  hat,  the  fold  of  a  coat,  the  make  of  a  boot, 
or  the  chance  attitude  of  a  limb  at  the  instant  of  view 
— may  have  a  great  influence  upon  feminine  opinion 
of  a  man's  worth,  so  frequently  founded  on  non-essen- 
tials ;  but  a  certain  causticity  of  mental  tone  towards 
himself  and  the  world  in  general  had  prevented  to-day, 
as  always,  any  enthusiastic  action  on  the  strength  of 
that  reflection  ;  and  her  momentary  instinct  of  reserve 
at  first  sight  of  him  was  the  penalty  he  paid  for  his 
laxness. 

He  gave  away  the  tree  to  a  bystander  as  soon  as 
he  could  find  one  who  would  accept  the  cumbersome 
gift,  and  the  twain  moved  on  towards  the  inn  at  which 
he  had  put  up.  Marty  made  as  if  to  step  forward  for 
the  pleasure  of  being  recognized  by  Miss  Melbury; 
but  abruptly  checking  herself  she  glided  behind  a 
carrier's  van,  saying  dryly,  *  No;  I  bain't  wanted  there;* 
and  critically  regarded  Winterborne's  companion. 

It  would   have   been   difificult  to  describe  Grace 

41 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

Melbury  with  precision,  either  then  or  at  any  time. 
Nay,  from  the  highest  point  of  view,  to  precisely 
VjI  describe  a  human  being,  the  focus  of  a  universe,  how 
I  impossible  !  But  apart  from  transcendentalism,  there 
never  probably  lived  a  person  who  was  in  herself  more 
completely  a  reductio  ad  absurdum  of  attempts  to 
appraise  a  woman,  even  externally,  by  items  of  face 
and  figure. 

Speaking  generally  it  may  be  said  that  she  was 
sometimes  beautiful,  at  other  times  not  beautiful, 
according  to  the  state  of  her  health  and  spirits. 

In  simple  corporeal  presentment  she  was  of  a  fair 
and  clear  complexion,  rather  pale  than  pink,  slim  in 
build  and  elastic  in  movement.  Her  look  expressed  a 
tendency  to  wait  for  others'  thoughts  before  uttering 
her  own  ;  possibly  also  to  wait  for  others'  deeds  before 
her  own  doings.  In  her  small,  delicate  mouth,  which 
had  hardly  settled  down  to  its  matured  curves,  there 
was  a  gentleness  that  might  hinder  sufficient  self-asser- 
tion for  her  own  good.  She  had  well-formed  eyebrows 
which,  had  her  portrait  been  painted,  would  probably 
have  been  done  in  Prouts's  or  Vandyke  brown. 

There  was  nothing  remarkable  in  her  dress  just 
now  beyond  a  natural  fitness,  and  a  style  that  was 
recent  for  the  streets  of  Sherton.  But  had  it  been 
quite  striking  it  would  have  meant  just  as  little.  For 
there  can  be  hardly  anything  less  connected  with  a 
woman's  personality  than  drapery  which  she  has  neither 
designed,  manufactured,  cut,  sewed,  nor  even  seen, 
except  by  a  glance  of  approval  when  told  that  such 
and  such  a  shape  and  colour  must  be  had  because  it 
has  been  decided  by  others  as  imperative  at  that  par- 
ticular time. 

What  people  therefore  saw  of  her  in  a  cursory 
view  was  very  little ;  in  truth,  mainly  something  that 
was  not  she.  The  woman  herself  was  a  conjectural 
creature  who  had  little  to  do  with  the  outlines  presented 
to  Sherton  eyes ;  a  shape  in  the  gloom,  whose  true 
quality  could  only  be  approximated  by  putting  together 

42 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

a  movement  now  and  a  glance  then,  in  that  patient 
attention  which  nothing  but  watchful  loving-kindness 
ever  troubles  itself  to  give. 

There  was  a  little  delay  in  their  setting  out  from 
the  town,  and  Marty  Souih  took  advantage  of  it  to 
hasten  forward  with  the  view  of  escaping  them  on  the 
way,  lest  they  should  feel  compelled  to  spoil  their 
tete-a-tete  by  asking  her  to  ride.  She  walked  fast,  and 
one-third  of  the  journey  was  done,  and  the  evening 
rapidly  darkening,  before  she  perceived  any  sign  of 
them  behind  her.  Then,  while  ascending  a  hill,  she 
dimly  saw  their  vehicle  drawing  near  the  lowest  part 
of  the  incline,  their  heads  slightly  bent  towards  each 
other ;  drawn  together,  no  doubt,  by  their  souls ;  as 
the  heads  of  a  pair  of  horses  well  in  hand  are  drawn 
in  by  the  rein.     She  walked  still  faster. 

But  between  these  and  herself  there  was  a  carriage, 
apparently  a  brougham,  coming  in  the  same  direction, 
with  lighted  lamps.  When  it  overtook  her — which 
was  not  soon  on  account  of  her  pace — the  scene  was 
much  darker,  and  the  lights  glared  in  her  eyes  suffi- 
ciently to  hide  the  details  of  the  equipage. 

It  occurred  to  Marty  that  she  might  take  hold 
behind  this  carriage  and  so  keep  along  with  it,  to  save 
herself  from  the  patronage  of  being  overtaken  and 
picked  up  for  pity's  sake  by  the  coming  pair.  Accord- 
ingly, as  the  carriage  drew  abreast  of  her  in  climbing 
the  long  ascent,  she  walked  close  to  the  wheels,  the 
rays  of  the  nearest  lamp  penetrating  her  very  pores. 
She  had  only  just  dropped  behind  when  the  carriage 
stopped,  and  to  her  surprise  the  coachman  asked  her, 
over  his  shoulder,  if  she  would  ride.  What  made  the 
question  more  surprising  was  that  it  came  in  obedience 
to  an  order  from  the  interior  of  the  vehicle. 

Marty  gladly  assented,  for  she  was  weary,  very 
weary,  after  working  all  night  and  keeping  afoot  all 
day.  She  mounted  beside  the  coachman,  wondering 
why  this  good  fortune  had  happened  to  her.     He  was 

43 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

rather  a  great  man  in  aspect,  and  she  did  not  like  to 
inquire  of  him  for  some  time. 

At  last  she  said,  '  Who  has  been  so  kind  as  to  ask 
me  to  ride  ?  ' 

*  Mrs.  Charmond/  replied  her  statuesque  com- 
panion. 

Marty  was  stirred  at  the  name,  so  closely  connected 
with  her  last  night's  experiences.  *  Is  this  her 
carriage  ?  *  she  whispered. 

*  Yes;  she's  inside.* 

Marty  reflected,  and  perceived  that  Mrs.  Charmond 
must  have  recognized  her  plodding  up  the  hill  under 
the  blaze  of  the  lamp:  recognized,  probably,  her  stubbly 
poll  (since  she  had  kept  away  her  face),  and  thought 
that  those  stubbles  were  the  result  of  her  own  desire. 

Marty  South  was  not  so  very  far  wrong.  Inside 
the  carriage  a  pair  of  deep  eyes  looked  from  a  ripely 
handsome  face,  and  though  behind  those  deep  eyes 
was  a  mind  of  unfathomed  mysteries,  beneath  them 
there  beat  a  heart  capable  of  quick,  extempore  warmth 
— a  heart  which  could  indeed  be  passionately  and  im- 
prudently warm  on  certain  occasions.  At  present, 
after  recognizing  the  girl,  she  had  acted  on  impulse, 
possibly  feeling  gratified  at  the  denuded  appearance 
which  signified  the  success  of  her  agent  in  obtaining 
what  she  had  required. 

*  *Tis  wonderful  that  she  should  ask  'ee,*  observed 
the  majestic  coachman  presently.  *  I  have  never 
known  her  do  it  before,  for  as  a  rule  she  takes  no 
interest  in  the  village  folk  at  all.' 

Marty  said  no  more,  but  occasionally  turned  her 
head  to  see  if  she  could  get  a  glimpse  of  the  Olympian 
creature  who,  as  the  coachman  had  truly  observed, 
hardly  ever  descended  from  her  clouds  into  the  Tempe- 
vale  of  the  parishioners.  But  she  could  discern 
nothing  of  the  lady.  She  also  looked  for  Miss  Mel- 
bury  and  Winterborne.  The  nose  of  their  horse 
sometimes  came  quite  near  the  back  of  Mrs.  Char- 
mond's  carriage.     But  they  never  attempted  to  pass 

44 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

it  till  the  latter  conveyance  turned  towards  the  park 
gate,  when  they  sped  by.  Here  the  carriage  drew  up 
that  the  gate  might  be  opened ;  and  in  the  momentary 
silence  Marty  heard  a  gentle  oral  sound,  soft  as  a 
breeze. 

*  What's  that  ? '  she  whispered. 

*  Mis'ess  yawning.' 

*  Why  should  she  yawn  ? ' 

•Oh,  because  she's  been  used  to  such  wonderful 
good  life,  and  finds  it  dull  here.  She'll  soon  be  off 
again  on  account  of  it.' 

*  So  rich  and  so  powerful,  and  yet  to  yawn ! '  the 
girl  murmured.  *  Then  things  don't  fay  with  her  any 
more  than  with  we  !  * 

Marty  now  alighted ;  the  lamp  again  shone  upon 
her,  and  as  the  carriage  rolled  on  a  voice  said  to  her 
from  the  interior,  *  Good  night.' 

'  Good  night,  ma'am,'  said  Marty,  dropping  a 
curtsey.  But  she  had  not  been  able  to  see  the  woman 
who  began  so  greatly  to  interest  her — the  second 
person  of  her  own  sex  who  had  operated  strongly  on 
her  mind  that  day. 


VI 

Meanwhile  Winterborne  and  Grace  Melbury  had 
also  undergone  their  little  experiences. 

As  he  drove  off  with  her  out  of  the  town  the 
glances  of  people  fell  upon  them,  the  younger  thinking 
that  Mr.  Winterborne  was  in  a  pleasant  place,  and 
wondering  in  what  relation  he  stood  towards  her. 
Winterborne  himself  was  unconscious  of  this. 
Occupied  solely  with  the  idea  of  having  her  in  charge 
he  did  not  notice  much  with  outward  eye. 

Their  conversation  was  in  briefest  phrase  for  some 
time,  Grace  being  somewhat  disconcerted  through  not 
having  understood  till  they  were  about  to  start  that 
Giles  was  to  be  her  sole  conductor,  in  place  of  her 
father.  When  they  had  left  Sherton  Park  and  Castle 
nearly  out  of  sight  and  were  in  the  open  country, 
he  spoke. 

*  Don't  Brownley  s  farm-buildings  look  strange  to 
you,  now  they  have  been  moved  bodily  from  the 
hollow  where  the  old  ones  stood  to  the  top  of  the  hill  ? ' 

She  admitted  that  they  did,  though  she  should  not 
have  seen  any  difference  in  them  if  he  had  not  pointed 
it  out. 

'They  had  a ^  good  crop  of  bitter-sweets;  they 
couldn't  grind  them  all.'  He  nodded  towards  an 
orchard  where  some  heaps  of  apples  had  been  left 
lying  ever  since  the  ingathering. 

She  said  *  Yes,'  but  looking  at  another  orchard. 

*  Why,  you  are  looking  at  John-apple  trees  !  You 
know  bitter-sweets — you  used  to  well  enough  ?  * 

46 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

*  I  am  afraid  I  have  forgotten,  and  it  is  getting  too 
dark  to  distinguish.' 

Winterborne  did  not  continue.  It  seemed  as  if 
the  knowledge  and  interests  which  had  formerly  moved 
Grace's  mind  had  quite  died  away  from  her.  He 
wondered  whether  the  special  attributes  of  his  image 
in  the  past  had  evaporated  like  these  other  things. 

However  that  might  be,  the  fact  at  present  was 
merely  this,  that  where  he  was  seeing  John-apples 
and  farm-buildings  she  was  beholding  a  much  con- 
trasting scene :  a  broad  lawn  in  the  fashionable  suburb 
of  a  fast  city,  the  evergreen  leaves  shining  in  the 
evening  sun,  amid  which  bounding  girls,  gracefully 
clad  in  artistic  arrangements  of  blue,  brown,  red,  and 
white,  were  playing  at  games  with  laughter  and  chat 
in  all  the  pride  of  life,  the  notes  of  piano  and  harp 
trembling  in  the  air  from  the  open  windows  adjoining. 
Moreover  they  were  girls — and  this  was  a  fact  which 
Grace  Melbury's  delicate  femininity  could  not  lose 
sight  of — whose  parents  Giles  would  have  addressed 
with  a  deferential  Sir  or  Madam.  Beside  this  visioned 
scene  the  homely  farmsteads  did  not  quite  hold  their 
own  from  her  present  twenty-year  point  of  survey. 
For  all  his  woodland  sequestration  Giles  knew  the 
primitive  simplicity  of  the  subject  he  had  started,  and 
now  sounded  a  deeper  note. 

*  'Twas  very  odd  what  we  said  to  each  other  years 
ago ;  I  often  think  of  it.  I  mean  our  saying  that  if 
we  still  liked  each  other  when  you  were  twenty  and  I 
twenty-five,  we'd * 

*  It  was  child's  tattle.* 

*  H'm  ?  '  said  Giles  suddenly. 

*  I  mean  we  were  young,'  said  she  more  consider- 
ately. That  abrupt  manner  of  his  in  making  inquiries 
reminded  her  that  he  was  unaltered. 

*  Yes  ...  I  beg  your  pardon,  Miss  Melbury ;  your 
father  sent  me  to  meet  you  to-day.' 

*  I  know  it,  and  I  am  glad  of  it.*  And  she  looked 
at  him  affectionately. 

47 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

He  seemed  satisfied  with  her  and  went  on — *  At 
that  time  you  were  sitting  beside  me  at  the  back  of 
your  father's  covered  car  when  we  were  coming  home 
from  gipsying,  all  the  party  being  squeezed  in  together 
as  tight  as  sheep  in  an  auction-pen.  It  got  darker 
and  darker  and  I  said — I  forget  the  exact  words — but 
I  put  my  arm  round  your  waist,  and  there  you  let  it 
stay  till  your  father,  sitting  in  front,  suddenly  stopped 
telling  his  story  to  Farmer  Bollen,  to  light  his  pipe. 
The  flash  shone  into  the  car,  and  showed  us  all  up 
distinctly;  my  arm  flew  from  your  waist  like  light- 
ning, yet  not  so  quickly  but  that  some  of  em  had  seen 
and  laughed  at  us.  Yet  your  father,  to  our  amaze- 
ment, instead  of  being  angry,  was  mild  as  milk,  and 
seemed  quite  pleased.  Have  you  forgot  all  that,  or 
haven't  you  ?  * 

She  owned  that  she  remembered  it  very  well,  now 
that  he  mentioned  the  circumstances.  *  But  I  must 
have  been  in  short  frocks,'  she  said  slyly. 

*  Come  now,  Miss  Melbury,  that  won't  do  !  Short 
frocks  indeed!     You  know  better  as  well  as  I.' 

Grace  thereupon  declared  that  she  would  not 
argue  with  an  old  friend  she  valued  so  highly  as  she 
valued  him,  but  if  it  were  as  he  said,  then  she  was 
virtually  no  less  than  an  old  woman  now,  so  far  did 
the  time  seem  removed  from  her  present. 

*  But  old  feelings  come  to  life  again  in  some 
people,'  she  added  softly. 

*  And  in  others  they  have  never  died  !  *  said  he. 

*  Ah — they  are  Love's  very  ownest  and  best,  I 
suppose  !     I  don't  pretend  to  rank  so  high  as  they.' 

*  It's  not  a  they — it's  a  he.' 

Grace  sighed.  *  Shall  I  tell  you  all  about 
Brighton  or  Cheltenham,  or  places  on  the  Continent 
that  I  visited  last  summer  .f* '  she  said. 

'  With  all  my  heart.' 

She  then  described  places  and  persons,  avoiding, 
however,  what  he  most  wished  to  hear — everything 
specially   appertaining   to   her   own   inner   existence. 

48 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

When  she  had  done  she  said  gaily,  *  Now  do  you  tell 
me  in  return  what  has  happened  in  Hintock  since  I 
have  been  away.* 

*  Anything  to  keep  the  conversation  away  from  her 
and  me,'  said  Giles  within  him. 

It  was  true  ;  cultivation  had  so  far  advanced  in  the 
soil  of  Miss  Melbury's  mind  as  to  lead  her  to  talk 
of  anything  save  of  that  she  knew  well,  and  had  the 
greatest  interest  in  developing :  herself.  She  had 
fallen  from  the  good  old  Hintock  ways. 

He  had  not  proceeded  far  with  his  somewhat  bald 
narration  when  they  drew  near  a  carriage  that  had  been 
preceding  them  for  some  time  in  the  dusk.  Miss 
Melbury  inquired  if  he  knew  whose  carriage  it  was. 

Winterborne,  although  he  had  seen  it,  had  not 
taken  it  into  account.  On  examination  he  said  it 
was  Mrs.  Charmond's. 

Grace  watched  the  vehicle  and  its  easy  roll,  and 
seemed  to  feel  more  nearly  akin  to  it  than  to  the  one 
she  was  in. 

*  Pooh — we  can  polish  off  the  mileage  as  well  as 
they,  come  to  that,'  said  Winterborne,  reading  her 
mind ;  and  rising  to  emulation  at  what  it  bespoke  he 
whipped  on  the  horse.  This  it  was  which  had  brought 
the  nose  of  Mr.  Melbury's  grey  close  to  the  back  of 
Mrs.  Charmond's  much  eclipsing  vehicle. 

'  There's  Marty  South  sitting  up  with  the  coach- 
man,' said  he,  discerning  her  by  her  dress. 

'  Ah,  poor  Marty  !  I  must  ask  her  to  come  to  see 
me  this  very  evening.  How  does  she  happen  to  be 
riding  there  ?  ' 

*  1  don't  know.     It  is  very  singular.' 

Thus  these  people  with  converging  destinies  went 
along  the  road  together,  till  the  track  of  the  carriage 
and  that  of  Winterborne  parted,  and  he  turned  into 
Little  Hintock,  where  almost  the  first  house  was  the 
timber-merchant's.  Pencils  of  light  streamed  out  of 
the  windows  sufficiently  to  show  the  white  laurustinus 
flowers,   and  glance   against   the   polished   leaves   of 

49 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

laurel.  The  interior  of  the  rooms  could  be  seen 
distinctly,  warmed  up  by  the  fire-flames,  which  in  the 
parlour  were  reflected  from  picture  and  book-case,  and 
in  the  kitchen  from  the  utensils  and  ware. 

*  Let  us  look  at  the  dear  place  for  a  moment  before 
we  call  them,'  she  said. 

In  the  kitchen  dinner  was  preparing ;  for  though 
Melbury  dined  at  one  o'clock  at  other  times  to-day 
the  meal  had  been  kept  back  for  Grace.  A  rickety 
old  spit  was  in  motion,  its  end  being  fixed  in  the  fire- 
dog,  and  the  whole  kept  going  by  means  of  a  cord 
conveyed  over  pulleys  along  the  ceiling  to  a  large 
stone  suspended  in  a  corner  of  the  room.  Old 
Grammer  Oliver  came  and  wound  it  up  with  a  rattle 
like  that  of  a  mill. 

In  the  parlour  a  colossal  shade  of  Mrs.  Melbury 's 
head  fell  on  the  wall  and  ceiling  ;  but  before  the  girl 
had  regarded  this  room  many  moments  their  presence 
was  discovered,  and  her  father  and  stepmother  came 
out  to  welcome  her. 

The  character  of  the  Melbury  family  was  of  that 
kind  which  evinces  some  shyness  in  showing  strong 
emotion  among  each  other  ;  a  trait  frequent  in  rural 
households,  and  one  curiously  inverse  to  most  of  the 
peculiarities  distinguishing  villagers  from  the  people 
of  towns.  Thus  hiding  their  warmer  feelings  under 
commonplace  talk  all  round,  Grace's  reception  pro- 
duced no  extraordinary  demonstrations.  But  that 
more  was  felt  than  was  enacted  appeared  from  the  fact 
that  her  father,  in  taking  her  indoors,  quite  forgot  the 
presence  of  Giles  without,  as  did  also  Grace  herself. 

He  said  nothing ;  but  took  the  gig  round  to  the 
yard  and  called  out  from  the  spar-house  the  man  who 
attended  to  these  matters  when  there  was  no  conver- 
sation among  the  spar-makers  to  particularly  engage 
him.  Winterborne  then  returned  to  the  door  with  the 
intention  of  entering  the  house. 

The  family  had  gone  into  the  parlour,  and  were 
still  absorbed  in  themselves.     The  fire  was  as  before 

50 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

the  only  light,  and  it  irradiated  Grace's  face  and  hands 
so  as  to  make  them  look  wondrously  smqoth_anHiair 
beside  those  of  the  two  elders ;  shining  also  through 
the  loose  hair  about  her  temples  as  sunlight  through  a 
brake.  Her  father  was  surveying  her  in  a  dazed  con- 
jecture, so  much  had  she  developed  and  progressed  in 
manner  and  in  stature  since  he  last  had  set  eyes  on  her. 

Observing  these  things  Winterborne  remained 
dubious  by  the  door,  mechanically  tracing  with  his 
fingers  certain  timeworn  letters  carved  in  the  jambs — 
initials  of  bygone  generations  of  householders  who 
had  lived  and  died  there. 

No,  he  declared  to  himself,  he  would  not  enter 
and  join  the  family;  they  had  forgotten  him,  and  it 
was  enough  for  to-day  that  he  had  brought  her  home. 
Still,  he  was  a  little  surprised  that  her  father's  eager- 
ness to  send  him  for  Grace  should  have  resulted  in 
such  indifference  as  this. 

He  walked  softly  away  into  the  lane  towards  his 
own  house,  looking  back  when  he  reached  the  turning 
from  which  he  could  get  a  last  glimpse  of  the  timber- 
merchant's  roof  He  hazarded  guesses  as  to  what 
Grace  was  saying  just  at  that  moment,  and  murmured, 
with  some  self-derision,  *  nothing  about  me ! '  He 
looked  also  in  the  other  direction,  and  saw  against  the 
sky  the  thatched  hip  and  solitary  chimney  of  Marty's 
cottage,  and  thought  of  her  too,  struggling  bravely 
along  under  that  humble  shelter,  among  her  spar-gads 
and  pots  and  skimmers. 

At  the  timber-merchant's,  in  the  meantime,  con- 
versation flowed ;  and  as  Giles  Winterborne  had 
rightly  enough  deemed,  on  subjects  in  which  he  had 
no  share.  Among  the  excluding  matters  there  was, 
as  chief,  the  effect  upon  Mr.  Melbury  of  the  womanly 
mien  and  manners  of  his  daughter,  which  took  him  so 
much  unawares  that  it  thrust  back  the  image  of  her 
conductor  homeward  into  quite  the  obscurest  cellarage 
of  his  brain. 

51 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

Another  was  his  interview  with  Mrs.  Charmond's 
agent  that  morning,  at  which  the  lady  herself  had 
been  present  for  a  few  minutes.  Melbury  had  pur- 
chased some  standing  timber  from  her  a  long  time 
before,  and  now  that  the  date  had  come  for  felling  it 
he  was  left  to  pursue  almost  his  own  course.  This  is 
what  the  household  were  actually  talking  of  during 
Giles's  cogitation  without 

*  So  thoroughly  does  she  trust  me,'  said  Melbury, 
*  that  I  might  fell,  top,  or  lop,  on  my  own  judgment, 
any  stick  o'  timber  whatever  in  her  wood,  and  fix  the 
price  o't,  and  settle  the  matter.  But  name  it  all,  I 
wouldn't  do  such  a  thing.  However,  it  may  be  useful 
to  have  this  good  understanding  with  her.  ...  I 
wish  she  took  more  interest  in  the  place  and  stayed 
here  all  the  year  round.' 

*  I  am  afraid  'tis  not  her  regard  for  you,  but  her 
dislike  of  Hintock,  that  makes  her  so  easy  about  the 
trees,'  said  Mrs.  Melbury. 

When  dinner  was  over  Grace  took  a  candle  and 
began  to  ramble  pleasurably  through  the  rooms  of  her 
old  home,  from  which  she  had  latterly  become  well- 
nigh  an  alien.  Each  nook  and  each  object  revived 
a  memory,  and  simultaneously  modified  it.  The 
chambers  seemed  lower  than  they  had  appeared  on 
any  previous  occasion  of  her  return,  the  surfaces  of 
both  walls  and  ceilings  standing  in  such  near  relations 
to  the  eye  that  it  could  not  avoid  taking  microscopic 
note  of  their  irregularities  and  old  fashion.  Her  own 
bedroom  wore  at  once  a  look  more  familiar  than  when 
she  had  left  it,  and  yet  a  face  estranged.  The  world 
of  little  things  therein  gazed  at  her  in  helpless  station- 
ariness,  as  though  they  had  tried  and  been  unable  to 
make  any  progress  without  her  presence.  Over  the 
place  where  her  candle  had  been  accustomed  to  stand, 
when  she  had  used  to  read  in  bed  till  the  midnight 
hour,  there  was  still  the  brown  spot  of  smoke.  She 
did  not  know  that  her  father  had  taken  especial  care 
to  keep  it  from  being  cleaned  off. 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

Having  concluded  her  perambulation  of  this  now 
uselessly  commodious  edifice,  Grace  began  to  feel  that 
she  had  come  a  long  journey  since  the  morning  ;  and 
when  her  father  had  been  up  himself,  as  well  as  his 
wife,  to  see  that  her  room  was  comfortable  and  the 
fire  burning,  she  prepared  to  retire  for  the  night. 

No  sooner,  however,  had  she  extinguished  her 
candle  than  her  momentary  sleepiness  took  itself  off, 
and  she  wished  she  had  stayed  up  longer.  She 
amused  herself  by  listening  to  the  old  familiar  noises 
that  she  could  hear  to  be  still  going  on  downstairs, 
and  by  looking  towards  the  window  as  she  lay.  The 
blind  had  been  drawn  up  as  she  used  to  have  it  when 
a  girl,  and  she  could  just  discern  the  dim  tree-tops 
against  the  sky  on  the  neighbouring  hill.  Beneath 
this  meeting-line  of  light  and  shade  nothing  was 
visible  save  one  solitary  point  of  light,  which  blinked 
as  the  tree  -  twigs  waved  to  and  fro  before  its 
beams. 

From  its  position  it  seemed  to  radiate  from  the 
window  of  a  house  on  the  hill-side.  The  house  had 
been  empty  when  she  was  last  at  home,  and  she 
wondered  who  inhabited  the  place  now. 

Her  conjectures,  however,  were  not  intently 
carried  on,  and  she  was  watching  the  light  quite  idly 
when  it  gradually  changed  colour,  and  at  length  shone 
blue  as  sapphire.  Thus  it  remained  several  minutes, 
and  then  it  passed  through  violet  to  red. 

Her  curiosity  was  so  widely  awakened  by  the 
phenomenon  that  she  sat  up  in  bed,  and  stared 
steadily  at  the  shine.  An  appearance  of  this  sort 
sufficient  to  excite  attention  anywhere,  was  no  less 
than  a  marvel  in  Hintock,  as  Grace  had  known  the 
hamlet.  Almost  every  diurnal  and  nocturnal  effect  in 
that  woodland  place  had  hitherto  been  the  direct 
result  of  the  regular  terrestrial  roll  which  produced 
the  season  s  changes ;  but  here  was  something 
dissociated  from  these  normal  sequences,  and  foreign 
to  local  knowledge. 

53 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

It  was  about  this  moment  that  Grace  heard  the 
household  below  preparing  to  retire,  the  most 
emphatic  noise  in  the  proceeding  being  that  of  her 
father  bolting  the  doors.  Then  the  stairs  creaked, 
and  her  father  and  mother  passed  her  chamber.  The 
last  to  come  was  Grammer  Oliver. 

Grace  slid  out  of  bed,  ran  across  the  room,  and 
lifting  the  latch  said,  *  I  am  not  asleep,  Grammer. 
Come  in  and  talk  to  me.' 

Before  the  old  woman  had  entered  Grace  was 
again  under  the  bedclothes.  Grammer  set  down  her 
candlestick,  and  seated  herself  on  the  edge  of  Miss 
Melbury's  coverlet. 

*  I  want  you  to  tell  me  what  light  that  is  I  see  on 
the  hill-side,'  said  Grace. 

Mrs.  Oliver  looked  across.  *  Oh,  that,'  she  said, 
*  is  from  the  young  doctor's.  He's  often  doing  things 
of  that  sort.  Perhaps  you  don't  know  that  we've  a 
doctor  living  here  now — Mr.  Fitzpiers  by  name  ? ' 

Grace  admitted  that  she  had  not  heard  of  him. 

*  Well,  then,  miss,  he's  come  here  to  get  up  a 
practice.  Though  he  belongs  to  the  oldest,  ancientest 
family  in  the  country,  he's  stooped  to  make  hisself 
useful  like  any  common  man.  I  know  him  very  well, 
through  going  there  to  help  'em  scrub  sometimes, 
which  your  father  said  I  might  do  if  I  wanted  to  in 
my  spare  time.  Being  a  bachelor-man  he've  only 
lodgings.  O  yes,  I  know  him  very  well.  Sometimes 
he'll  talk  to  me  as  if  I  were  his  own  mother.' 

•Indeed.' 

*  Yes.  "  Grammer,"  he  said  one  day  when  I 
asked  him  why  he  came  here  where  there's  hardly 
anybody  living,  "  I'll  tell  you  why  I  came  here.  I 
took  a  map,  and  I  marked  on  it  where  Dr.  Jones's 
practice  ends  to  the  north  of  this  district,  and  where 
Mr.  Taylor's  ends  on  the  south,  and  little  Jemmy 
Green's  on  the  east,  and  somebody  else's  to  the  west. 
Then  I  took  a  pair  of  compasses,  and  found  the  exact 
middle  of  the  country  that  was  left   between   these 

54 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

bounds,  and  that  middle  was  Little  Hintock ;  so  here 
I  am."  .  .  .   But,  Lord,  there :  poor  young  man !  * 

'Why?' 

'  He  said,  **  Grammer  Oliver,  I've  been  here  three 
months,  and  although  there  are  a  good  many  people 
in  the  Hintocks  and  the  villages  round,  and  a  scattered 
practice  is  often  a  very  good  one,  I  don't  seem  to  get 
many  patients;  and  I'm  not  rich.  And  there's  no 
society  at  all;  and  I'm  pretty  near  melancholy  mad," 
he  said,  with  a  great  yawn.  '*  I  should  be  quite  if  it 
were  not  for  my  books,  and  my  lab — laboratory,  and 
what  not.  Grammer,  I  was  made  for  higher  things !  "  1 
And  then  he'd  yawn  and  yawn  again.'  I 

'Was  he  really  made  for  higher  things,  do  you 
think  ?     Is  he  clever  ?  ' 

'Well,  no.  How  can  he  be  clever?  He  may  be 
able  to  jine  up  a  broken  man  or  woman  after  a 
fashion,  and  put  his  finger  upon  an  ache  if  you  tell 
him  nearly  where  'tis ;  but  these  young  men — they 
should  live  to  my  time  of  life,  and  then  they'd  see 
how  clever  they  were  at  five-and-twenty  !  And  yet 
he's  a  projick,  a  real  projick,  and  says  the  oddest  of 
rozums.  "Ah,  Grammer,"  he  said  at  another  time, 
*'  let  me  tell  you  that  Everything  is  Nothing.  There's 
only  Me  and  Not  Me  in  the  whole  world."  And  he 
told  me  that  no  man's  hands  could  help  what  they 
did,  any  more  than  the  hands  of  a  clock.  .  .  .  Yes, 
he's  a  man  of  strange  meditations,  and  his  eyes  seem 
to  see  as  far  as  the  north  star.' 

'  He  will  soon  go  away,  no  doubt.* 

*  I  don't  think  so.' 
Grace  did  not  say  'Why  ? '  and  Grammer  hesitated. 

At  last  she  went  on,  *  Don't  tell  your  father  or  mother, 
miss,  if  I  let  you  know  a  secret  ?  ' 

Grace  gave  the  required  promise. 

'Well,  he  talks  of  buying  me;  so  he  won't  go 
away  just  yet.' 

*  Buying  you — how  ?  * 

*  Not  my  soul — my  body,  when  I'm  dead !     One 

55 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

day  when  I  was  there  cleaning,  he  said,  "  Grammer, 
you've  a  large  brain — a  very  large  organ  of  brain,"  he 
said.  "  A  woman's  is  usually  four  ounces  less  than 
a  man's ;  but  your's  is  man's  size."  Well,  then — 
hee,  hee ! — after  he'd  flattered  me  a  bit  like  that,  he 
said  he'd  give  me  ten  pounds  to  have  my  head  as  a 
natomy  after  my  death.  Well,  knowing  I'd  no  chick 
nor  chiel  left,  and  nobody  with  any  interest  in  me,  I 
thought,  faith  if  I  can  be  of  any  use  to  my  fellow- 
creatures  after  I'm  gone  they  are  welcome  to  me  ;  so 
I  said  I'd  think  it  over,  and  would  most  likely  agree 
and  take  the  ten  pounds.  Now  this  is  a  secret,  miss, 
between  us  two.  The  money  would  be  very  useful  to 
me ;  and  I  see  no  harm  in  it.' 

*  Of  course  there's  no  harm.  But  O,  Grammer — 
how  can  you  think  to  do  it."*  I  wish  you  hadn't 
told  me.' 

*  I  wish  I  hadn't — if  you  don't  like  to  know  it, 
miss.  But  you  needn't  mind.  Lord,  hee  !  hee !  I 
shall  keep  him  waiting  many  a  year  yet,  bless  ye !  * 

*  I  hope  you  will,  I  am  sure.' 

The  girl  thereupon  fell  into  such  deep  reflection 
that  conversation  languished,  and  Grammer  Oliver 
taking  her  candle  wished  Miss  Melbury  good-night. 

The  latter's  eyes  rested  on  the  distant  glimmer, 
around  which  she  allowed  her  reasoning  fancy  to  play 
in  vague  eddies  that  shaped  the  doings  of  the  philo- 
sopher behind  that  light  on  the  lines  of  intelligence 
just  received.  It  was  strange  to  her  to  come  back 
from  the  world  to  Little  Hintock  and  find  in  one  of 
its  nooks,  like  a  tropical  plant  in  a  hedgerow,  a 
nucleus  of  advanced  ideas  and  practices  which  had 
nothing  in  common  with  the  life  around.  Chemical 
experiments,  anatomical  projects,  and  metaphysical 
conceptions  had  found  a  strange  home  here. 

Thus  she  remained  thinking,  the  imagined  pursuits 
of  the  man  behind  the  light  intermingling  with  con- 
jectural sketches  of  his  personality ;  till  her  eyelids 
fell  together  with  their  own  heaviness,  and  she  slept. 

56 


VII 

Kaleidoscopic  dreams  of  a  weird  alchemist-surgeon, 
Grammer  Oliver's  skeleton,  and  the  face  of  Giles 
Winterborne,  brought  Grace  Melbury  to  the  morning 
of  the  next  day.  It  was  fine.  A  north  wind  was 
blowing — that  not  unacceptable  compromise  between 
the  atmospheric  cutlery  of  the  eastern  blast  and  the 
spongy  gales  of  the  west  quarter.  She  looked  from 
her  window  in  the  direction  of  the  light  of  the 
previous  evening,  and  could  just  discern  through  the 
trees  the  shape  of  the  surgeon's  house.  Somehow, 
in  the  broad,  practical  daylight,  that  unknown  and 
lonely  gentleman  seemed  to  be  shorn  of  much  of  the 
interest  which  had  invested  his  personality  and  pur- 
suits in  the  hours  of  darkness,  and  as  Grace's  dressing 
proceeded  he  faded  from  her  mind. 

Meanwhile  Winterborne,  though  half-assured  of 
her  father's  favour,  was  rendered  a  little  restless  by 
Miss  Melbury's  own  behaviour.  Despite  his  shy 
self-control  he  could  not  help  looking  continually  from 
his  own  door  towards  the  timber-merchant's,  in  the 
probability  of  somebody's  emergence  therefrom. 

His  attention  was  at  length  justified  by  the 
appearance  of  two  figures,  that  of  Mr.  Melbury  him- 
self, and  Grace  beside  him.  They  stepped  out  in  a 
direction  towards  the  densest  quarter  of  the  wood, 
and  Winterborne  walked  contemplatively  behind  them 
till  all  three  were  soon  under  the  trees. 

Although  the  time  of  bare  boughs  had  now  set 
in   there  were   sheltered   hollows  amid  the  Hintock 

57 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

plantations  and  copses  in  which  a  more  tardy  leave- 
taking  than  on  windy  «iummits  was  the  rule  with 
the  foliage.  This  caused  here  and  there  an  apparent 
mixture  of  the  seasons  ;  so  that  in  some  of  the  dells 
they  passed  by  holly-berries  in  full  red  growing 
beside  oak  and  hazel  whose  leaves  were  as  yet  not 
far  removed  from  green,  and  brambles  whose  verdure 
was  rich  and  deep  as  in  the  month  of  August.  To 
Grace  these  well-known  peculiarities  were  as  an  old 
painting  restored. 

Now  could  be  beheld  that  change  from  the  hand- 
some to  the  curious  which  the  features  of  a  wood 
undergo  at  the  ingress  of  the  winter  months.  Angles 
were  taking  the  place  of  curves,  and  reticulations  of 
surfaces — a  change  constituting  a  sudden  lapse  from 
the  ornate  to  the  primitive  on  Nature's  canvas,  and 
comparable  to  a  retrogressive  step  from  the  art  of 
an  advanced  school  of  painting  to  that  of  the  Pacific 
Islander. 

Winterborne  followed  and  kept  his  eye  upon  the 
two  figures  as  they  threaded  their  way  through 
these  sylvan  masses.  Mr.  Melbury's  long  legs, 
his  gaiters  drawn  in  to  the  bone  at  the  ankles,  his 
slight  stoop,  his  habit  of  getting  lost  in  thought 
and  arousing  himself  with  an  exclamation  of  *  Hah !  * 
accompanied  with  an  upward  jerk  of  the  head,  com- 
posed a  personage  recognizable  by  his  neighbours 
as  far  as  he  could  be  seen.  It  seemed  as  if  the 
squirrels  and  birds  knew  him.  One  of  the  former 
would  occasionally  run  from  the  path  to  hide  behind 
the  arm  of  some  tree,  which  the  little  animal  care- 
fully edged  round  pari  passu  with  Melbury  and  his 
daughter's  movement  onward,  assuming  a  mock 
manner  as  though  he  were  saying,  *  Ho,  ho !  you 
are  only  a  timber-merchant,  and  carry  no  gun !  * 

They  went  noiselessly  over  mats  of  starry  moss, 
rustled  through  interspersed  tracts  of  leaves,  skirted 
trunks  with  spreading  roots  whose  mossed  rinds 
made     them     like     hands    wearing    green    gloves; 

58 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

elbowed  old  elms  and  ashes  with  great  forks,  in 
which  stood  pools  of  water  that  overflowed  on 
rainy  days  and  ran  down  their  stems  in  green  cas- 
cades. On  older  trees  still  than  these  huge  lobes 
of  fungi  grew  like  lungs.  Here,  as  everywhere, 
the  Unfulfilled  Intention,  which  makes  life  what  it 
is,  was'as'oBvious^as  it~c6uld  be  among  the  depraved 
crowds  of  a  city  slum.  The  leaf  was  deformed,  the 
curve  was  crippled,  the  taper  was  interrupted  ;  the 
lichen  ate  the  vigour  of  the  stalk,  and  the  ivy  slowly 
strangled  to  death  the  promising  sapling. 

They  dived  amid  beeches  under  which  nothing 
grew,  the  younger  boughs  still  retaining  their  hectic 
leaves,  that  rustled  in  the  breeze  with  a  sound  almost 
metallic,  like  the  sheet -iron  foliage  of  the  fabled 
Jarnvid  wood.  Some  flecks  of  white  in  Grace's 
drapery  had  enabled  Giles  to  keep  her  and  her 
father  in  view  till  this  time  ;  but  now  he  lost  sight 
of  them  and  was  obliged  to  follow  by  ear — no 
difficult  matter,  for  on  the  line  of  their  course  every 
wood-pigeon  rose  from  its  perch  with  a  continued 
clash,  dashing  its  wings  against  the  branches  with 
well-nigh  force  enough  to  break  every  quill.  By 
taking  the  track  of  this  noise  he  soon  came  to  a  stile. 

Was  it  worth  while  to  go  further  ?  He  examined 
the  doughy  soil  at  the  foot  of  the  stile,  and  saw 
amongst  the  large  sole-and-heel  tracks  an  impression 
of  a  slighter  kind  from  a  boot  that  was  obviously 
not  local.  The  mud-picture  was  enough  to  make 
him  swing  himself  over  and  proceed. 

The  character  of  the  woodland  now  changed. 
The  bases  of  the  smaller  trees  were  nibbled  bare 
by  rabbits,  and  at  divers  points  heaps  of  fresh-made 
chips,  and  the  newly  cut  stool  of  a  tree,  stared  white 
through  the  undergrowth.  There  had  been  a  large 
fall  of  timber  this  year,  which  explained  the  meaning 
of  some  sounds  that  soon  reached  him. 

A  voice  was  shouting  intermittently  in  a  sort 
of  human  bark,   reminding    Giles  that  there  was  a 

59     ' 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

sale  of  trees  and  faggots  that  very  day.  Melbury 
would  naturally  be  present.  Winterborne  decided 
that  he  himself  wanted  a  few  faggots,  and  entered 
upon  the  scene. 

A  large  group  of  buyers  stood  round  the 
auctioneer,  or  followed  him  when,  between  his 
pauses,  he  wandered  on  from  one  lot  of  plantation- 
produce  to  another,  like  some  philosopher  of  the 
Peripatetic  school  delivering  his  lectures  in  the 
shady  groves  of  the  Lyceum.  His  companions 
were  timber-dealers,  yeomen,  farmers,  villagers,  and 
others;  mostly  woodland  men,  who  on  that  account 
could  afford  to  be  curious  in  their  walking-sticks, 
which  consequently  exhibited  various  monstrosities 
of  vegetation,  the  chief  being  corkscrew  shapes  in 
black  and  white  thorn,  brought  to  that  pattern  by 
the  slow  torture  of  an  encircling  woodbine  during 
their  growth,  as  the  Chinese  have  been  said  to  mould 
human  beings  into  grotesque  toys  by  continued  com- 
pression in  infancy.  Two  women  wearing  men's 
jackets  on  their  gowns  conducted  in  the  rear  of  the 
halting  procession  a  pony-cart  containing  bread  and 
cheese,  with  a  barrel  of  strong  ale  for  the  select, 
and  cider  in  milking-pails  into  which  anybody  dipped 
who  chose. 

The  auctioneer  adjusted  himself  to  circumstances 
by  using  his  walking-stick  as  a  hammer,  and  knocked 
down  the  lot  on  any  convenient  object  that  took 
his  fancy,  such  as  the  crown  of  a  little  boy's  head, 
or  the  shoulders  of  a  bystander  who  had  no  business 
there  except  to  taste  the  brew ;  a  proceeding  which 
would  have  been  deemed  humorous  but  for  the  air 
of  stern  rigidity  which  the  auctioneer's  face  preserved, 
tending  to  show  that  the  eccentricity  was  a  result 
of  that  absence  of  mind  which  is  engendered  by 
the  press  of  affairs,  and  no  freak  of  fancy  at  all. 

Mr.  Melbury  stood  slightly  apart  from  the  rest 
of  the  Peripatetics,  and  Grace  beside  him,  clinging 
closely  to  his  arm ;  her  modern  attire  looking  almost 

60 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

odd  where  everything  else  was  old-fashioned,  and 
throwing  over  the  familiar  garniture  of  the  trees  a 
homeliness  that  seemed  to  demand  improvement  by 
the  addition  of  a  few  contemporary  novelties  also. 
Grace  seemed  to  regard  the  selling  with  the  interest 
which  attaches  to  memories  revived  after  an  interval 
of  obliviousness. 

Winterborne  went  and  stood  close  to  them  ;  the 
timber- merchant  spoke,  and  continued  his  buying; 
Grace  merely  smiled.  To  justify  his  presence  there 
Winterborne  began  bidding  for  timber  and  faggots 
that  he  did  not  want,  pursuing  the  occupation  in 
an  abstracted  mood  in  which  the  auctioneer's  voice 
seemed  to  become  one  of  the  natural  sounds  of  the 
woodland. 

A  few  flakes  of  snow  descended,  at  the  sight  of 
which  a  robin,  alarmed  at  these  signs  of  imminent 
winter,  and  seeing  that  no  offence  was  meant  by 
the  human  invasion,  came  and  perched  on  the  tip 
of  the  faggots  that  were  being  sold,  and  looked 
into  the  auctioneer's  face  whilst  waiting  for  some 
chance  crumb  from  the  bread-basket.  Standing  a 
little  behind  Grace,  Winterborne  observed  how  one 
flake  would  sail  downward  and  settle  on  a  curl  of 
her  hair,  and  how  another  would  choose  her  shoulder, 
and  another  the  edge  of  her  bonnet,  which  took  up 
so  much  of  his  attention  that  his  biddings  proceeded 
incoherently ;  and  when  the  auctioneer  said  every 
now  and  then,  with  a  nod  towards  him,  *  Yours,  Mr. 
Winterborne,'  he  had  no  idea  whether  he  had  bought 
faggots,  poles,  or  log-wood. 

He  regretted  that  her  father  should  show  such 
inequalities  of  temperament  as  to  keep  Grace  tightly 
on  his  arm  to-day,  when  he  had  quite  lately  seemed 
anxious  to  recognize  their  betrothal  as  a  fact.  And 
thus  musing,  and  joining  in  no  conversation  with 
other  buyers  except  when  directly  addressed,  he 
followed  the  assemblage  hither  and  thither  till  the 
end   of  the   auction,    when    Giles   for  the   first    time 

6i 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

realized  what  his  purchases  had  been.  Hundreds  of 
faggots,  and  divers  lots  of  timber,  had  been  set  down 
to  him,  when  all  he  had  required  had  been  a  few 
bundles  of  spray  for  his  man  Robert  Creedle's  use  in 
baking  and  lighting  fires. 

Business  being  over,  he  turned  to  speak  to  the 
timber-merchant.  But  Melbury's  manner  was  short 
and  distant ;  and  Grace  too  looked  vexed  and  re- 
proachful. Winterborne  then  discovered  that  he  had 
been  unwittingly  bidding  against  her  father,  and  pick- 
ing up  his  favourite  lots  in  spite  of  him.  With  a  very 
few  words  they  left  the  spot,  and  pursued  their  way 
homeward. 

Giles  was  extremely  blank  at  what  he  had  done, 
and  remained  standing  under  the  trees,  all  the  other 
men  having  strayed  silently  away.  He  saw  Melbury 
and  his  daughter  pass  down  a  glade  without  looking 
back.  While  they  moved  slowly  through  it  a  lady 
appeared  on  horseback  in  the  middle  distance,  the  line 
of  her  progress  converging  upon  that  of  Melbury's. 
They  met,  Melbury  took  off  his  hat,  and  she  reined  in 
her  horse.  A  conversation  was  evidently  in  progress 
between  Grace  and  her  father  and  this  equestrian, 
in  whom  he  was  almost  sure  that  he  recognized  Mrs. 
Charmond,  less  by  her  outline  than  by  the  livery  of 
the  groom  who  had  halted  some  yards  off. 

The  interlocutors  did  not  part  till  after  a  pro- 
longed pause,  during  which  much  seemed  to  be  said. 
When  Melbury  and  Grace  resumed  their  walk  it  was 
with  something  of  a  lighter  tread  than  before. 

Winterborne  pursued  his  own  course  homeward. 
He  was  unwilling  to  let  coldness  grow  up  between 
himself  and  the  Melburys  for  any  trivial  reason,  and 
in  the  evening  he  went  to  their  house.  On  drawing 
near  the  gate  his  attention  was  attracted  by  the  sight 
of  one  of  the  bedrooms  blinking  into  a  state  of 
illumination.  In  it  stood  Grace  lighting  several 
candles,  her  right  hand  elevating  the  taper,  her  left 
hand  on  her  bosom,   her  face  thoughtfully  fixed  on 

62 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

each  wick  as  it  kindled,  as  if  she  saw  in  every  flame's 
growth  the  rise  of  a  life  to  maturity.  He  wondered 
what  such  unusual  brilliancy  could  mean  to-night. 

On  getting  indoors  he  found  her  father  and  step- 
mother in  a  state  of  suppressed  excitement  which  he 
could  not  comprehend. 

*  I  am  sorry  about  my  biddings  to-day,*  said  Giles. 
*  I  don't  know  what  I  was  doing.  I  have  come  to  say 
that  any  of  the  lots  you  may  require  are  yours.' 

*  Oh,  never  mind — never  mind,'  replied  the  timber- 
merchant  with  a  slight  wave  of  his  hand.  *  I  have 
so  much  else  to  think  of  that  I  nearly  had  forgot 
it.  Just  now,  too,  there  are  matters  of  a  different 
kind  from  trade  to  attend  to,  so  don't  let  it  con- 
cern 'ee.' 

As  the  timber-merchant  spoke,  as  it  were,  down 
to  him  from  a  higher  plane  than  his  own,  Giles  turned 
to  Mrs.  Melbury. 

'  Grace  is  going  to  the  House  to-morrow,'  she  said 
quietly.  *  She  is  looking  out  her  things  now.  I 
dare  say  she  is  wanting  me  this  minute  to  assist  her.' 
Thereupon  Mrs.  Melbury  left  the  room. 

Nothing  is  more  remarkable  than  the  independent 
personality  of  the  tongue  now  and  then.  Mr. 
Melbury  knew  that  his  words  had  been  a  sort  of 
boast.  He  decried  boasting,  particularly  to  Giles  ; 
yet  whenever  the  subject  was  Grace  his  judgment 
resigned  the  ministry  of  speech  in  spite  of  him. 

Winterborne  felt  surprise,  pleasure,  and  also  a 
little  apprehension  at  the  news.  He  repeated  Mrs. 
Melbury's  words. 

*  Yes,'  said  paternal  pride,  not  sorry  to  have 
dragged  out  of  him  what  he  could  not  in  any  circum- 
stances have  kept  in.  *  Coming  home  from  the  woods 
this  afternoon  we  met  Mrs.  Charmond  out  for  a  ride. 
She  spoke  to  me  on  a  little  matter  of  business,  and 
then  got  acquainted  with  Grace.  'Twas  wonderful 
how  she  took  to  Grace  in  a  few  minutes  ;  that  free- 
masonry   of    education    made    'em    close     at    once, 

63 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

Naturally  enough  she  was  amazed  that  such  an 
article — ha — ha ! — could  come  out  of  my  house.  At 
last  it  led  on  to  Mis'ess  Grace  being  asked  to  the 
House.  So  she's  busy  hunting  up  her  frills  and 
furbelows  to  go  in.'  As  Giles  remained  in  thought 
without  responding,  Melbury  continued :  *  But  I'll  call 
her  downstairs.' 

*  No,  no ;  don't  do  that,  since  she's  busy,*  said 
Winterborne. 

Melbury,  feeling  from  the  young  man's  manner 
that  his  own  talk  had  been  too  much  at  Giles  and  too 
little  to  him,  repented  at  once.  His  face  changed, 
and  he  said,  in  lower  tones,  with  an  effort :  *  She's 
yours,  Giles,  as  far  as  I  am  concerned.' 

'  Thanks — my  best  thanks,  sir.  But  I  think  since 
it  is  all  right  between  us  about  the  biddings,  that  I'll 
not  interrupt  her  now.  I'll  step  homeward,  and  call 
another  time.' 

On  leaving  the  house  he  looked  up  at  the  bed- 
room again.  Grace,  surrounded  by  a  sufficient 
number  of  candles  to  answer  all  purposes  of  self- 
criticism,  was  standing  before  a  cheval  glass  that  her 
father  had  lately  bought  expressly  for  her  use  ;  she 
was  bonneted,  cloaked,  and  gloved,  and  glanced  over 
her  shoulder  into  the  mirror,  estimating  her  aspect. 
Her  face  was  lit  with  the  natural  elation  of  a  young 
girl  hoping  to  inaugurate  on  the  morrow  an  intimate 
acquaintance  with  a  new,  interesting,  and  influential 
friend. 


VIII 

The  inspiriting   appointment    which    had    led    Grace 
Melbury  to   indulge  in  a  six-candle  illumination   for 
the  arrangement  of  her  attire  carried  her  over  the 
ground  the  next  morning  with  a  springy  tread.      Her 
sense  of  being  properly  appreciated  on  her  own  native   i 
soil  charged  her  heart  with  expansive  gratitude.     She  / 
moved  along,   a  vessel  of  emotion,  going  to  empty  * 
itself  on  she  knew  not  what. 

Twenty  minutes'  walking  through  copses,  over  a 
stile,  and  along  an  upland  lawn,  brought  her  to  the 
verge  of  a  deep  glen,  in  which  Hintock  House  ap- 
peared immediately  beneath  her  eye.     To  describe 
it   as  standing   in  a  hollow  would   not   express    the     ^ 
situation    of  the    manor-house ;    it    stood    in   a  hole.        ' 
But  the  hole  was  full  of  beauty.      From  the  spot  which^     * 
Grace   had  reached  a  stone   could   easily  have  been 
thrown  over  or  into  the   birds'-nested   chimneys   of 
the  mansion.     Its  walls  were  surmounted  by  a  battle- 
mented  parapet ;  but  the  grey  lead  roofs  were  quite 
visible  behind  it,  with  their  gutters,  laps,  rolls,  and 
skylights,  together  with  letterings  and  shoe-patterns 
cut  by  idlers  thereon. 

The  front  of  the  house  was  an  ordinary  manorial 

presentation  of  Elizabethan  windows,  mullioned  and " 

hooded,  worked  in  rich  snuff-coloured  freestone  from 
Ham-hill  quarries.  The  ashlar  of  the  walls,  where  not 
overgrown  with  ivy  and  other  creepers,  was  coated 
with  lichen  of  every  shade,  intensifying  its  luxuriance 
with  its  nearness  to  the  ground  till,  below  the  plinth, 
it  merged  in  moss. 

65 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

Above  the  house  to  the  back  was  a  dense  planta* 
tion,  the  roots  of  whose  trees  were  above  the  level 
of  the  chimneys.  The  corresponding  high  ground  on 
which  Grace  stood  was  richly  grassed,  with  only  an 
old  tree  here  and  there.  A  few  sheep  lay  about, 
which  as  they  ruminated  looked  quietly  into  the  bed- 
room windows. 

The  situation  of  the  house,  prejudicial  to  humanity, 
was  a  stimulus  to  vegetation,  on  which  account  an 
endless  shearing  of  the  heavy-armed  ivy  went  on,  and 
a  continual  lopping  of  trees  and  shrubs.  It  was  an 
edifice  built  in  times  when  human  constitutions  were 
damp-roof,  when  shelter  from  the  boisterous  was  all 
that  men  thought  of  in  choosing  a  dwelling-place,  the 
insidious  being  beneath  their  notice ;  and  its  hollow 
site  was  an  ocular  reminder  by  its  unfitness  for  modern 
lives  of  the  fragility  to  which  these  have  declined. 

The  highest  architectural  cunning  could  have  done 
nothing  to  make  Little  Hintock  House  dry  and  salu- 
brious ;  and  ruthless  ignorance  could  have  done  little 
to  make  it  unpicturesque.  It  was  vegetable  nature's 
own  home ;  a  spot  to  inspire  the  painter  and  poet  of 
still  life— if  they  did  not  suffer  too  much  from  the 
relaxing  atmosphere — and  to  draw  groans  from  the 
gregariously  disposed. 

Grace  descended  the  green  escarpment  by  a  zigzag 
path  into  the  drive,  which  swept  round  beneath  the 
slope.  The  exterior  of  the  house  had  been  familiar 
to  her  from  her  childhood,  but  she  had  never  been 
inside,  and  the  first  step  to  knowing  an  old  thing  in 
a  new  way  was  a  lively  experience. 

It  was  with  a  little  flutter  that  she  was  shown  in ; 
but  she  recollected  that  Mrs.  Charmond  would  pro- 
bably be  alone.  Up  to  a  few  days  before  this  time 
that  lady  had  been  accompanied  in  her  comings,  stay- 
ings,  and  goings  by  a  relative,  believed  to  be  her 
aunt ;  latterly,  however,  the  two  had  separated,  owing, 
it  was  supposed,  to  a  quarrel ;  and  Mrs.  Charmond 
had  been  left  desolate.     Being  presumably  a  woman 

66 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

who  did  not  care  for  solitude  this  deprivation  might 
account  for  her  sudden  interest  in  Grace. 

Mrs.  Charmond  was  at  the  end  of  a  gallery  open- 
ing from  the  hall  when  Miss  Melbury  was  announced, 
and  saw  her  through  the  glass  doors  between  them. 
She  came  forward  with  a  smile  on  her  face,  and  told 
the  young  girl  it  was  good  of  her  to  come. 

*  Ah  !  you  have  noticed  those,'  she  said,  seeing  that 
Grace's  eyes  were  attracted  by  some  curious  objects 
against  the  walls.  *They  are  man-traps.  My  husband 
was  a  connoisseur  in  man-traps  and  spring-guns  and 
such  articles,  collecting  them  from  all  his  neighbours. 
He  knew  the  histories  of  all  these — which  gin  had 
broken  a  man's  leg,  which  gun  had  killed  a  man.  I 
don't  like  them  here  ;  but  I've  never  yet  given  direc- 
tions for  them  to  be  taken  away.*  She  added  playfully, 
*  Man-traps  arc  of  rather  ominous  significance  where 
a  person  of  our  sex  lives,  are  they  not  ?  * 

Grace  was  bound  to  smile  ;  but  that  side  of  woman- 
liness was  one  which  her  inexperience  felt  no  great 
zest  in  contemplating. 

*  They  are  interesting,  no  doubt,  as  relics  of  a  bar- 
barous time  happily  past,'  she  said,  looking  thought- 
fully at  the  varied  designs  of  the  instruments. 

'  Well,  we  must  not  take  them  too  seriously,'  said 
Mrs.  Charmond  with  an  indolent  turn  of  her  head,  and 
they  moved  on  inwards. 

When  she  had  shown  her  visitor  different  articles 
in  cabinets  that  she  deemed  likely  to  interest  her, 
some  tapestries,  wood  carvings,  ivories,  miniatures, 
and  so  on — always  with  a  mien  of  listlessness  which 
might  either  have  been  constitutional,  or  partly  owing 
to  the  situation  of  the  place — they  sat  down  to  an 
early  cup  of  tea. 

*  Will  you  pour  it  out,  please  ?  Do,'  she  said, 
leaning  back  in  her  chair,  and  placing  her  hand  above 
her  forehead,  while  her  almond  eyes — those  long  eyes 
so  common  to  the  angelic  legions  of  early  Italian  art 
— became   longer,   and   her  voice  more  languishing. 

67 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

She  showed  that  oblique-mannered  softness  which 
is  perhaps  seen  oftenest  in  women  of  darker  com- 
plexion and  more  lymphatic  temperament  than  Mrs. 
Charmond's;  women  who  lingeringly  smile  their  mean- 
ings to  men  rather  than  speak  them,  who  inveigle 
rather  than  prompt,  and  take  advantage  of  currents 
rather  than  steer. 

*  I  am  the  most  inactive  woman  when  I  am  here,' 
she  said.  *  I  think  sometimes  I  was  born  to  live  and 
do  nothing,  nothing,  nothing  but  float  about,  as  we 
fancy  we  do  sometimes  in  dreams.  But  that  cannot 
be  really  my  destiny,  and  I  must  struggle  against  such 
fancies.' 

*  I  am  so  sorry  you  do  not  enjoy  exertion — it  is 
quite  sad !  I  wish  I  could  tend  you  and  make  you 
very  happy.' 

There  was  always  something  so  sympathetic,  so 
responsive  in  Grace's  voice,  that  it  impelled  people  to 
overstep  their  customary  reservations  in  talking  to  her. 
'  It  is  tender  and  kind  of  you  to  feel  that ! '  said  Mrs. 
Charmond.  *  Perhaps  I  have  given  you  the  notion 
that  my  languor  is  more  than  it  really  is.  But  this 
place  oppresses  me,  and  I  have  a  plan  of  going  abroad 
a  good  deal.  I  used  to  go  with  a  relation,  but  that 
arrangement  has  dropped  through.' 

Regarding  Grace  with  a  final  glance  of  criticism  she 
seemed  to  make  up  her  mind  to  consider  the  young 
girl  satisfactory,  and  continued  : 

*  Now,  I  am  often  impelled  to  record  my  impres- 
sions of  times  and  places.  I  have  often  thought  of 
writing  a  new  Sentimental  Journey.  But  I  cannot 
find  energy  enough  to  do  it  alone.  When  I  am  at 
different  places  in  the  south  of  Europe  I  feel  a  crowd 
of  ideas  and  fancies  thronging  upon  me  continually  ; 
but  to  unfold  writing  materials,  take  up  a  cold  steel 
pen,  and  put  these  impressions  down  systematically 
on  cold  smooth  paper — that  I  cannot  do.  So  I  have 
thought  that  if  I  always  could  have  somebody  at  my 
elbow  with  whom  I  am  in  sympathy,  I  might  dictate 

68 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

any  ideas  that  come  into  my  head.  Ant'  directly  I 
had  made  your  acquaintance  the  other  d;i/  it  struck 
me  that  you  would  suit  me  so  well.  Would  you  like 
to  undertake  it.'*  You  might  read  to  me,  too,  if 
desirable.  Will  you  think  it  over,  and  ask  your 
parents  if  they  are  willing  ?  ' 

*  O  yes,'  said  Grace.  *  I  am  almost  sure  they 
would  be  very  glad.' 

*  You  are  so  accomplished,  I  hear ;  I  should  be 
quite  honoured  by  such  intellectual  company.* 

Grace,  modestly  blushing,  deprecated  any  such 
idea. 

*  Do  you  keep  up  your  lucubrations  at  Little 
Hintock  ? '  the  lady  went  on. 

*  O  no.  .  .  .  Lucubrations  are  not  unknown  at 
Little  Hintock;  but  they  are  not  carried  on  by  me.' 

'  What — another  student  in  that  retreat  ?  ' 

*  There  is  a  surgeon  lately  come,  and  I  have  heard 
that  he  reads  a  great  deal — I  see  his  light  sometimes 
through  the  trees  late  at  night.' 

'  O  yes — a  doctor — I  believe  I  was  told  of  him. 
It  is  a  strange  place  for  him  to  settle  in.' 

'  It  is  a  convenient  centre  for  a  practice,  they  say. 
But  he  does  not  confine  his  studies  to  medicine,  it 
seems.  He  investigates  theology,  and  metaphysics 
and  all  sorts  of  subjects.' 

*  What  is  his  name  ?  * 

*  Fitzpiers.  He  represents  a  very  old  family,  I 
believe,  the  Fitzpierses  of  Oakbury- Fitzpiers — not  a 
great  many  miles  from  here.' 

*  I  am  not  sufficiently  local  to  know  the  history 
of  the  family.  I  was  never  in  the  county  till  my 
husband  brought  me  here.' 

Mrs.  Charmond  did  not  care  to  pursue  this  line 
of  investigation.  Whatever  mysterious  merit  might 
attach  to  family  antiquity,  it  was  one  which  her 
adaptable,  wandering,  weltbiirgerlicke  nature  had 
grown  tired  of  caring  about — a  peculiarity  that  made 
her  a  piquant  contrast  to  her  neighbours. 

69 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

*  It  is  of  rather  more  importance  to  know  what  the 
man  is  himself  than  what  his  family  is,'  she  said,  '  if 
he  is  going  to  practise  upon  us  as  a  surgeon. 
Heaven  send  him  skill !     Have  you  seen  him  ?  ' 

Grace  had  not.  *  I  think  he  is  not  a  very  old 
man,'  she  added. 

*  Has  he  a  wife?* 

*  I  an\  not  aware  that  he  has. 

*  Well,  I  hope  he  will  be  useful  here.  I  must  get 
to  know  him  when  I  come  back.  It  will  be  very 
convenient  to  have  a  medical  man — if  he  is  clever — 
in  one's  own  parish.  I  get  dreadfully  nervous  some- 
times, living  in  such  an  outlandish  place ;  and 
Sherton  is  so  far  to  send  to.  No  doubt  you  feel 
Little  Hintock  to  be  a  great  change  after  watering- 
place  life.' 

*  I  do.  But  it  is  home.  It  has  its  advantages 
and  its  disadvantages.'  Grace  was  thinking  less  of 
the  solitude  than  of  the  attendant  circumstances. 

They  chatted  on  for  some  time,  Grace  being  set 
quite  at  her  ease  by  her  entertainer.  Mrs.  Charmond 
was  far  too  well-practised  a  woman  not  to  know  that 
to  show  anything  like  patronage  towards  a  sensitive 
young  girl  who  would  probably  be  very  quick  to 
discern  it  was  to  demolish  her  dignity  rather  than 
to  establish  it  in  that  young  girl's  eyes.  So  being 
violently  possessed  with  her  idea  of  making  use  of 
this  gentle  acquaintance,  ready  and  waiting  at  her 
own  door,  she  took  great  pains  to  win  her  confidence 
at  starting. 

Just  before  Grace's  departure  the  two  chanced  to 
pause  before  a  mirror  which  reflected  their  faces  in 
immediate  juxtaposition,  bringing  into  prominence 
their  resemblances  and  their  contrasts.  Both  looked 
attractive  as  glassed  back  by  the  faithful  reflector ; 
but  Grace's  countenance  had  the  effect  of  making 
Mrs.  Charmond  appear  more  than  her  full  age. 
There  are  complexions  which  set  off  each  other  to 
great  advantage,  and  there  are  those  which  antagonize, 

70 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

one  of  such  killing  or  damaging  its  neighbour  un- 
mercifully. 

This  was  unhappily  the  case  here.  Mrs.  Char- 
mond  fell  into  a  meditation,  and  replied  abstractedly 
to  a  cursory  remark  of  her  companion's.  However, 
she  parted  from  her  young  friend  in  the  kindliest 
tones,  promising  to  send  and  let  her  know  as  soon  as 
her  mind  was  made  up  on  the  arrangement  she  had 
suggested. 

When  Grace  had  ascended  nearly  to  the  top  of 
the  adjoining  slope  she  looked  back,  and  saw  that 
Mrs.  Charmond  still  stood  at  the  door  meditatively 
regarding  her. 

Often  during  the  previous  night,  after  his  call  on 
the  Melburys,  Winterborne's  thoughts  had  run  upon 
Grace's  announced  visit  to  Hintock  House.  Why 
had  he  not  proposed  to  walk  with  her  part  of  the 
way  ^  Something  told  him  that  she  might  not,  on 
such  an  occasion,  have  cared  for  his  company. 

He  was  still  more  of  that  opinion  when,  standing 
in  his  garden  next  day,  he  saw  her  go  past  on  the 
journey  with  such  a  pretty  pride  in  the  event.  He 
questioned  if  her  father's  ambition,  which  had  pur- 
chased for  her  the  means  of  intellectual  light  and 
culture  far  beyond  those  of  any  other  native  of  the 
village,  would  not  operate  to  the  flight  of  her  future 
interests  above  and  away  from  the  local  life  which 
was  once  to  her  the  movement  of  the  world. 

Nevertheless,  he  had  her  father's  permission  to 
win  her  if  he  could ;  and  to  this  end  it  became  desir- 
able to  bring  matters  soon  to  a  crisis.  If  she  should 
think  herself  too  good  for  him  he  must  let  her  go,  and 
make  the  best  of  his  loss.  The  question  was  how  to 
quicken  events  towards  an  issue. 

He  thought  and  thought,  and  at  last  decided  that 
as  good  a  way  as  any  would  be  to  give  a  Christmas 
party,  and  ask  Grace  and  her  parents  to  come  as  chief 
guests. 

71 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

These  ruminations  were  occupying  him  when 
there  became  audible  a  slight  knocking  at  his  front 
door.  He  descended  the  path,  and  looked  out,  and 
beheld  Marty  South,  dressed  for  out-door  work. 

*  Why  didn't  you  come,  Mr.  Winterborne  ?  *  she 
said  ;  '  I've  been  waiting  there  hours  and  hours,  and 
at  last  I  thought  I  must  try  to  find  you !  * 

*  Bless  my  soul,  I'd  quite  forgot!  *  said  Giles. 
What   he   had  forgotten  was  that  there  were  a 

thousand  young  fir  trees  to  be  planted  in  a  neigh- 
bouring spot  which  had  been  cleared  by  the  wood- 
cutters, and  that  he  had  arranged  to  plant  them  with 
'his  own  hands.  He  had  a  marvellous  ^ower  of. 
making  trees  grow.  Although  he  would  seem  to 
shovel  in  the  earth  quite  carelessly  there  was  a  sort  of 
sympathy  between  himself  and  the  fir,  oak,  or  beech 
that  he  was  operating  on  ;  so  that  the  roots  took  hold 
of  the  soil  in  a  few  days.  When,  on  the  other  hand, 
any  of  the  journeymen  planted,  although  they  seemed 
to  go  through  an  identically  similar  process,  one 
quarter  of  the  trees  would  die  away  during  the 
ensuing  August. 

Hence  Winterborne  found  delight  in  the  work 
even  when,  as  at  present,  he  contracted  to  do  it  on 
portions  of  the  woodland  in  which  he  had  no  personal 
interest.  Marty,  who  turned  her  hand  to  anything, 
was  usually  the  one  who  performed  the  part  of 
keeping  the  trees  in  a  perpendicular  position  whilst 
he  threw  in  the  mould. 

He  accompanied  her  towards  the  spot,  being  in- 
clined yet  further  to  proceed  with  the  work  by  the 
knowledge  that  the  ground  was  close  to  the  roadside 
along  which  Grace  must  pass  on  her  way  from  Hintock 
House. 

*  You've  a  cold  in  the  head,  Marty,*  he  said  as  they 
walked.     *  That  comes  of  cutting  off  your  hair.* 

*  I  suppose  it  do.  Yes ;  I've  three  headaches 
going  on  in  my  head  at  the  same  time/ 

*  Three  headaches !  * 

72 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

*  Yes,  Mr.  Winterborne :  a  rheumatic  headache  in 
my  poll,  a  sick  headache  over  my  eyes,  and  a  misery 
headache  in  the  middle  of  my  brain.  However,  I 
came  out,  for  I  thought  you  might  be  waiting  and 
grumbling  like  anything  if  I  was  not  there.* 

The  holes  were  already  dug,  and  they  set  to  work. 
Winterborne's  fingers  were  endowed  with  a  gentle 
conjuror  s  touch  in  spreading  the  roots  of  each  little 
tree,  resulting  in  a  sort  of  caress  under  which  the 
delicate  fibres  all  laid  themselves  out  in  their  proper 
directions  for  growth.  He  put  most  of  these  roots 
towards  the  south-west ;  for,  he  said,  in  forty  years' 
time,  when  some  great  gale  is  blowing  from  that 
quarter,  the  trees  will  require  the  strongest  holdfast 
on  that  side  to  stand  against  it  and  not  fall. 

'  How  they  sigh  directly  we  put  'em  upright, 
though  while  they  are  lying  down  they  don't  sigh  at 
all,'  said  Marty. 

*  Do  they  ?  '  said  Giles.     *  I've  never  noticed  it.* 
She  erected  one  of  the  young  pines  into  its  hole, 

and  held  up  her  finger ;  the  soft  musical  breathing 
instantly  set  in  which  was  not  to  cease  night  or  day 
till  the  grown  tree  should  be  felled — probably  long 
after  the  two  planters  had  been  felled  themselves. 

*  It  seems  to  me,'  the  girl  continued,  '  as 
sigh  because  they  are  very  sorry  to  begin 
earnest — ^just  as  we  be.* 

*Just  as  we  be.-*'  He  looked  critically  at  her. 
*  You  ought  not  to  feel  like  that,  Marty.' 

Her  only  reply  was  turning  to  take  up  the  next 
tree ;  and  they  planted  on  through  a  great  part  of  the 
day,  almost  without  another  word.  Winterborne's 
mind  ran  on  his  contemplated  evening-party,  his 
abstraction  being  such  that  he  hardly  was  conscious 
of  Marty's  presence  beside  him. 

From  the  nature  of  their  employment,  in  which  he 
handled  the  spade  and  she  merely  held  the  tree,  it 
followed  that  he  got  good  exercise  and  she  got  none. 
But  she  was  a  heroic  girl,  and  though  her  outstretched 

71 


if  they    \ 
life  in     i 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

hand  was  chill  as  a  stone,  and  her  cheeks  blue,  and 
her  cold  worse  than  ever,  she  would  not  complain 
whilst  he  was  disposed  to  continue  work.  But  when 
ke  paused  she  said,  *  Mr.  Winterborne,  can  I  run 
down  the  lane  and  back  to  warm  my  feet  ? ' 

'Why,  yes,  of  course,'  he  said,  awakening  to  her 
existence.  *  Though  I  was  just  thinking  what  a 
mild  day  it  is  for  the  season.  Now  I  warrant  that 
cold  of  yours  is  twice  as  bad  as  it  was.  You 
had  no  business  to  chop  that  hair  off,  Marty ;  it 
serves  you  almost  right.  Look  here,  cut  off  home 
at  once.' 

*  A  run  down  the  lane  will  be  quite  enough.* 

*  No,  it  won't.  You  ought  not  to  have  come  out 
to-day  at  all.' 

*  But  I  should  like  to  finish  the ' 

*  Marty,  I  tell  you  to  go  home !  *  said  he  peremp- 
torily. *  I  can  manage  to  keep  the  rest  of  them 
upright  with  a  forked  stick  or  something.' 

She  went  away  without  saying  any  more.  When 
she  had  gone  down  the  orchard  a  little  distance  she 
looked  back.     Giles  suddenly  went  after  her. 

'  Marty,  it  was  for  your  good  that  I  was  rough, 
you  know.  But  warm  yourself  in  your  own  way  ;  I 
don't  care.'  He  took  her  hand  kindly  a  moment,  and 
then  let  her  go. 

When  she  had  run  off  he  fancied  he  discerned  a 
woman's  dress  through  the  holly  bushes  which  divided 
the  coppice  from  the  road.  It  was  Grace  at  last,  on 
her  way  back  from  the  interview  with  Mrs.  Charmond. 
He  threw  down  the  tree  he  was  planting,  and  was 
about  to  break  through  the  belt  of  holly  when  he 
suddenly  became  aware  of  the  presence  of  another 
man,  who  was  looking  over  the  hedge  on  the  opposite 
side  of  the  way  upon  the  figure  of  the  unconscious 
Grace. 

The  stranger  appeared  as  a  handsome  and  gentle- 
manly personage  of  six  or  eight  and  twenty,  and  he 
was  quizzing  her  through  an  eyeglass.     Seeing  that 

74 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

Winterborne  was  noticing  him  he  let  his  glass  drop 
with  a  click  upon  the  rail  which  protected  the  hedge, 
and  walked  away  in  the  opposite  direction. 

Giles  knew  in  a  moment  that  this  must  be  Mr. 
Fitzpiers.  When  he  was  gone  Winterborne  pushed 
through  the  holly,  and  emerged  close  beside  the  inter- 
esting object  of  their  contemplation. 


IX 

•I  HEARD  the  bushes  move  long  before  I  saw  you,*  J 
she  began.  *  I  said  first,  **  It  is  some  terrible  beast "  ;  ^ 
next,  "  It  is  a  poacher"  ;  next,  "  It  is  a  friend  !  "  ' 

He  regarded  her  with  a  slight  smile,  weighing,  not 
her  speech,  but  the  question  whether  he  should  tell 
her  that  she  had  been  flatteringly  watched  by  a 
gentleman.     He  decided  in  the  negative. 

*  You  have  been  to  the  House  ?  '  he  said.  *  But  I 
need  not  ask.'  The  fact  was  that  there  shone  upon 
Miss  Melbury's  face  a  species  of  exaltation  which  saw 
no  environing  details ;  not  even  Giles's  occupation, 
only  his  bare  presence. 

*  Why  need  you  not  ask  ? ' 

*  Your  face  is  like  the  face  of  Moses  when  he  came 
down  from  the  Mount.' 

She  reddened  a  little  and  said,  *  How  can  you  be 
so  profane,  Giles  Winterborne  ! ' 

*  How  can  you  think  so  much  of  that  class  of 
people !  Well,  I  beg  pardon,  I  didn't  mean  to  speak 
so  freely.     How  do  you  like  her  house  and  her  ?  ' 

*  Exceedingly.  I  had  not  been  near  the  place 
since  I  was  a  child,  when  it  used  to  be  let  to  strangers, 
before  Mrs.  Charmond's  late  husband  bought  the 
property.  She  is  so  nice ! '  And  Grace  fell  into 
such  an  abstracted  gaze  at  the  mental  image  of  Mrs. 
Charmond  and  her  niceness  that  it  almost  conjured  up 
a  vision  of  that  lady  to  Giles  himself. 

*  She  has  only  been  here  a  month  or  two  it  seems, 
and  cannot  stay  much  longer,  because  she  finds  it  so 

76 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

lonely  and  damp  in  winter.  She  is  going  abroad. 
Only  think,  she  would  like  me  to  go  with  her !  * 

Giles's   features   stiffened   a   little   at    the    news. 

*  Indeed:  what  for?  But  I  won't  keep  you  standing 
here.  Hoi,  Robert ! '  he  cried  to  a  swaying  collection 
of  old  clothes  in  the  distance,  which  composed  the 
figure  of  Creedle,  his  man,  who  was  looking  for  him. 

*  Go  on  filling  in  there  till  I  come  back.* 

*  I'm  a-coming,  sir;  I'm  a-coming.' 

*  Well,  the  reason  is  this,'  continued  she  as  they 
went  on  together.  '  Mrs.  Charmond  has  a  delightful 
side  to  her  character — a  desire  to  record  her  im- 
pressions of  travel,  like  Alexandre  Dumas,  and  M6ry, 
and  Sterne,  and  others.  But  she  cannot  find  energy 
enough  to  do  it  herself.'  And  Grace  proceeded  to 
explain  Mrs.  Charmond's  proposal  at  large.  '  My 
notion  is  that  Mary's  style  will  suit  her  best,  because 
he  writes  in  that  soft,  emotional,  luxurious  way  she 
has,'  Grace  said  musingly. 

'Indeed!'  said  Winterborne,  sighing.  *  Suppose 
you  talk  over  my  head  a  little  longer.  Miss  Grace 
Melbury.' 

*  O,  I  didn't  mean  it ! '  she  said  repentantly,  look- 
ing into  his  eyes.  *  And  as  for  myself,  I  hate  French 
books.  And  I  love  dear  old  Hintock,  and  the  people 
in  it,  fifty  times  better  than  all  the  Continent !  But 
the  scheme ;  I  think  it  an  enchanting  notion,  don't 
you,  Giles?* 

*  It  is  well  enough  in  one  sense,  but  it  will  take 
you  away,'  said  he,  mollified. 

*  Only  for  a  short  time ;  we  should  return  in 
May.' 

*Well,  Miss  Melbury;  it  is  a  question  for  your 
father.' 

Winterborne  walked  with  her  nearly  to  her  house. 
He  had  awaited  her  coming  mainly  with  the  view  of 
mentioning  to  her  his  proposal  to  have  a  Christmas 
party ;  but  homely  Christmas  gatherings  in  the 
jovial  Hintock  style  seemed  so  primitive  and  uncouth 

77 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

beside  the  lofty  matters  of  her  conversation  that  he 
refrained. 

As  soon  as  she  was  gone  he  turned  back  towards 
the  scene  of  his  planting,  and  could  not  help  saying 
to  himself  as  he  walked  that  this  engagement  of  his 
was  a  very  unpromising  business.  Her  outing  to-day 
had  not  improved  it.  A  woman  who  could  go  to 
Hintock  House,  and  be  friendly  with  its  mistress; 
enter  into  the  views  of  its  mistress,  talk  like  her,  and 
dress  not  much  unlike  her :  why,  she  would  hardly 
be  contented  with  him,  a  yeoman,  immersed  in  tree 
planting,  even  though  he  planted  them  well.  *  And 
yet  she's  a  true-hearted  girl,'  he  said,  thinking  of  her 
words  about  Hintock.  *  I  must  bring  matters  to  a 
point,  and  there's  an  end  of  it.' 

When  he  reached  the  place  of  work  he  found  that 
Marty  had  come  back,  and  dismissing  Creedle  he 
went  on  planting  silently  with  the  girl  as  before. 

*  Suppose,  Marty,'  he  said  after  a  while,  looking 
at  her  extended  arm,  upon  which  old  scratches  from 
briars  showed  themselves  purple  in  the  cold  wind, 
*  suppose  you  know  a  person,  and  want  to  bring  that 
person  to  a  good  understanding  with  you,  do  you 
think  a  Christmas  party  of  some  sort  is  a  warming- 
up  thing,  and  likely  to  be  useful  in  hastening  on  the 
matter  ? ' 

*  Is  there  to  be  dancing  ? ' 

*  There  might  be,  certainly.' 
« Will  He  dance  with  Her  ? ' 
•Well,  yes.' 

*  Then  it  might  bring  things  to  a  head,  one  way  or 
the  other,  I  won't  be  the  maid  to  say  which.' 

*  It  shall  be  done,'  said  Winterborne,  not  to  her, 
though  he  spoke  the  words  quite  loudly.  And  as  the 
day  was  nearly  ended,  he  added,  'Here,  Marty,  I'll 
send  up  a  man  to  plant  the  rest  to-morrow.  I've 
other  things  to  think  of  just  now.' 

She  did  not  inquire  what  other  things,  for  she  had 
seen  him  walking  with  Grace  Melbury,     She  looked 

73 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

towards  the  western  sky,  which  was  now  aglow  like 
some  vast  foundry  wherein  new  worlds  were  being 
cast.  Across  it  the  bare  bough  of  a  tree  stretched 
horizontally,  revealing  every  twig  against  the  evening 
fire,  and  showing  in  dark  profile  every  beck  and 
movement  of  three  pheasants  that  were  settling 
themselves  down  on  it  in  a  row  to  roost. 

*  It  will  be  fine  to-morrow,'  said  Marty,  observing 
them  with  the  vermilion  light  of  the  sun  in  the  pupils 
of  her  eyes,  *  for  they  are  a-croupied  down  nearly  at  \  ^ 
the  end  of  the  bough.     If  it  were  going  to  be  stormy  I 
they'd  squeeze  close  to  the  trunk.     The  weather  is  I 
almost  all  they  have  to  think  of,  isn't  it,  Mr.  Winter- 
borne?       And    so    they    must    be    lighter -hearted 
than  we.* 

*  I  dare  say  they  are,'  said  Winterborne. 

Before  taking  a  single  step  in  the  preparations, 
Winterborne,  with  no  great  hopes,  went  across  that 
evening  to  the  timber-merchant's  to  ascertain  if  Grace 
and  her  parents  would  honour  him  with  their  presence. 
Having  first  to  set  his  nightly  gins  in  the  garden 
to  catch  the  rabbits  that  ate  his  winter-greens,  his  call 
was  delayed  till  just  after  the  rising  of  the  moon, 
whose  rays  reached  the  Hintock  houses  but  fitfully 
as  yet,  on  account  of  the  trees.  Melbury  was  cross- 
ing his  yard  on  his  way  to  call  on  some  one  at  the 
larger  village,  but  he  readily  turned  and  walked  up 
and  down  with  the  young  man. 

Giles,  in  his  self-deprecatory  sense  of  living  on 
a  much  smaller  scale  than  the  Melburys  did,  would 
not  for  the  world  imply  that  his  invitation  was  to  a 
gathering  of  any  importance.  So  he  put  it  in  the 
mild  form  of  *  Can  you  come  in  for  an  hour  when 
you  have  done  business,  the  day  after  to-morrow ; 
and  Mrs.  and  Miss  Melbury,  if  they  have  nothing 
more  pressing  to  do  ?  ' 

Melbury  would  give  no  answer  at  once.  *  No,  I 
can't  tell  you  to-day,'  he  said.     *  I  must  talk  it  over 

79 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

with  the  women.  As  far  as  I  am  concerned,  my 
dear  Giles,  you  know  I'll  come  with  pleasure.  But 
how  do  I  know  what  Grace's  notions  may  be  ?  You 
see,  she  has  been  away  amongst  cultivated  folks  a 
good  while ;  and  now  this  acquaintance  with  Mrs. 
Charmond — well,  I'll  ask  her.     I  can  say  no  more.' 

When  Winterborne  was  gone  the  timber-merchant 
went  on  his  way.  He  knew  very  well  that  Grace, 
whatever  her  own  feelings,  would  either  go  or  not  go, 
according  as  he  suggested ;  and  his  instinct  was,  for 
the  moment,  to  suggest  staying  at  home.  His  errand 
took  him  near  the  church,  and  the  way  to  his  destina- 
tion was  equally  easy  across  the  churchyard  or  outside 
it.  For  some  reason  or  other  he  chose  the  former 
way. 

The  moon  was  faintly  lighting  up  the  gravestones, 
and  the  path,  and  the  front  of  the  building.  Suddenly 
Mr.  Melbury  paused,  turned  in  upon  the  grass,  and 
approached  a  particular  headstone,  where  he  read,  *  In 
memory  of  John  Winterborne,'  with  the  subjoined 
date  and  age.     It  was  the  grave  of  Giles's  father. 

The  timber- merchant  laid  his  hand  upon  the 
stone,  and  was  humanized.  *  Jack,  my  wronged 
friend ! '  he  said,  *  I'll  be  faithful  to  my  plan  of  making 
amends  to  thee.* 

When  he  reached  home  that  evening  he  said  to 
Grace  and  Mrs.  Melbury,  who  were  working  at  a 
little  table  by  the  fire,  'Giles  wants  us  to  go  down 
and  spend  an  hour  with  him  the  day  after  to-morrow  ; 
and  I'm  thinking,  that  as  'tis  Giles  who  asks  us, 
we'll  go.' 

They  assented  without  demur  ;  and  the  timber- 
merchant  sent  Giles  the  next  morning  an  answer  in 
the  affirmative. 

Winterborne,  in  his  modesty,  had  mentioned  no 
particular  hour  in  his  invitation  to  the  Melburys, 
though  he  had  to  the  inferior  guests ;  therefore  Mr. 
Melbury  and  his  family,  expecting  no  other  people, 

80 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

chose  their  own  time,  which  chanced  to  be  rather 
early  in  the  afternoon,  by  reason  of  the  somewhat 
quicker  despatch  than  usual  of  the  timber-merchant  s 
business  that  day. 

They  showed  their  sense  of  the  unimportance  of 
the  occasion  by  walking  quite  slowly  to  the  house,  as 
if  they  were  merely  out  for  a  ramble,  and  going  to 
nothing  special  at  all ;  or  at  most  intending  to  pay  a 
casual  call  and  take  a  cup  of  tea. 

At  this  hour  stir  and  bustle  pervaded  the  interior 
of  Winterborne's  domicile  from  cellar  to  apple-loft. 
He  had  planned  an  elaborate  high  tea  for  six  o'clock 
or  thereabouts,  and  a  good  roaring  supper  to  come 
on  about  eleven.  Being  a  bachelor  of  rather  retiring 
habits  the  whole  of  the  preparations  devolved  upon 
himself  and  his  trusty  man  and  familiar  Robert 
Creedle,  who  did  everything  that  required  doing, 
from  making  Giles's  bed  to  catching  moles  in  his 
field.  He  was  a  survival  from  the  days  when  Giles's 
father  held  the  homestead  and  Giles  was  a  playing 
boy. 

These  two,  with  a  certain  dilatoriness  which 
appertained  to  both,  were  now  in  the  heat  of  pre- 
paration in  the  bakehouse,  expecting  nobody  before 
six  o'clock.  Winterborne  was  standing  in  front  of 
the  brick  oven  in  his  shirt-sleeves,  tossing  in  thorn- 
sprays,  and  stirring  about  the  blazing  mass  with  a 
long-handled,  three-pronged  Beelzebub  kind  of  fork, 
the  heat  shining  out  upon  his  streaming  face  and 
making  his  eyes  like  furnaces ;  the  thorns  crackling 
and  sputtering  ;  while  Creedle,  having  ranged  the 
pastry  dishes  in  a  row  on  the  table  till  the  oven 
should  be  ready,  was  pressing  out  the  crust  of  a 
final  apple-pie  with  a  rolling-pin.  A  great  pot  boiled 
on  the  fire ;  and  through  the  open  door  of  the  back- 
kitchen  a  boy  was  seen  seated  on  the  fender,  empty- 
ing the  snuffers  and  scouring  the  candle-sticks,  a  row 
of  the  latter  standing  upside  down  on  the  hob  to  melt 
out  the  grease. 

8i 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

Looking  up  from  the  rolling-pin  Creedle  saw  pass- 
ing the  window  first  the  timber-merchant,  in  his  second 
best  suit,  next  Mrs.  Melbury  in  her  best  silk,  and 
behind  them  Grace  in  the  fashionable  attire  which, 
lately  brought  home  with  her  from  the  Continent,  she 
had  worn  on  her  visit  to  Mrs.  Charmond's.  The  eyes  of 
the  three  had  been  attracted  through  the  window  to  the 
proceedings  within  by  the  fierce  illumination  which  the 
oven  threw  out  upon  the  operators  and  their  utensils. 

'  Lord,  lord !  if  they  bain't  come  a'ready ! '  said 
Creedle. 

'  No — hey  }  *  said  Giles,  looking  round  aghast ; 
while  the  boy  in  the  background  waved  a  reeking 
candlestick  in  his  delight. 

As  there  was  no  help  for  it  Winterborne  hastily 
rolled  down  his  shirt-sleeves  and  went  to  meet  them 
in  the  doorway. 

*  My  dear  Giles,  I  see  we  have  made  a  mistake  in 
the  time,'  said  the  timber-merchant's  wife,  her  face 
lengthening  with  concern. 

'  Oh,  it  is  not  much  difference.  I  hope  you'll 
come  in.' 

*  But  this  means  a  regular  randyvoo!'  Mr.  Mel- 
bury accusingly  glanced  round  and  pointed  towards 
the  viands  in  the  bakehouse  with  his  stick. 

*  Well,  yes,'  said  Giles. 

*  And — not  Great  Hintock  band,  and  dancing, 
surely  ?  ' 

*  I  told  three  of  'em  they  might  drop  in  if  they'd 
nothing  else  to  do,'  Giles  mildly  admitted. 

*  Now  why  the  name  didn't  ye  tell  us  afore  that 
'twas  going  to  be  a  bouncing  kind  of  thing  }  How 
should  I  know  what  folk  mean  if  they  don't  say  .'* 
Now,  shall  we  come  in,  or  shall  we  go  home,  and 
come  back-along  in  a  couple  of  hours  ?  ' 

*  I  hope  you'll  stay,  if  you'll  be  so  good  as  not  to 
mind,  now  you  are  here !  I  shall  have  it  all  right  and 
tidy  in  a  very  little  time.  I  ought  not  to  have  been 
so  backward  ;  but  Creedle  is  rather  slow.* 

82 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

Giles  spoke  quite  anxiously  for  one  of  his  un- 
demonstrative temperament ;  for  he  feared  that  if 
the  Melburys  once  were  back  in  their  own  house  they 
would  not  be  disposed  to  turn  out  again. 

*  'Tis  we  ought  not  to  have  been  so  forward ; 
that's  what  'tis,'  said  Mr.  Melbury  testily.  *  Don't 
keep  us  here  in  your  best  sitting-room  ;  lead  on  to 
the  bakehouse,  man.  Now  we  are  here  we'll  help  ye 
get  ready  for  the  rest.  Here,  mis'ess,  take  off  your 
things,  and  help  him  out  in  his  baking,  or  he  won't 
get  done  to-night.  I'll  finish  heating  the  oven,  and 
set  you  free  to  go  and  skiver  up  them  ducks.'  His 
eye  had  passed  with  pitiless  directness  of  criticism 
into  yet  remoter  recesses  of  Winterborne's  awkwardly 
built  premises,  where  the  aforesaid  birds  were  hanging. 

*  And  I'll  help  finish  the  tarts,'  said  Grace  cheerfully. 

*  I  don't  know  about  that,'  said  her  father.  *  'Tisn't 
quite  so  much  in  your  line  as  it  is  in  your  step- 
mother's and  mine.' 

'  Of  course  I  couldn't  let  you,  Grace ! '  said  Giles, 
with  distress. 

*  I'll  do  it,  of  course,'  said  Mrs.  Melbury,  taking 
ofT  her  silk  train,  hanging  it  up  to  a  nail,  carefully 
rolling  back  her  sleeves,  pinning  them  to  her 
shoulders,  and  stripping  Giles  of  his  apron  for  her 
own  use. 

So  Grace  pottered  idly  about  while  her  father  and 
his  wife  helped  on  the  preparations.  A  kindly  pity 
of  his  household  management,  which  Winterborne 
saw  in  her  eyes  whenever  he  caught  them,  depressed 
him  much  more  than  her  contempt  would  have 
done. 

Creedle  met  Giles  at  the  pump  after  a  while,  when 
each  of  the  others  was  absorbed  in  the  difficulties  of 
a  cuisine  based  on  utensils,  cupboards,  and  provisions 
that  were  strange  to  them.  He  groaned  to  the  young 
man  in  a  whisper,  '  This  is  a  bruckle  het,  maister,  I'm 
much  afeard  !  Who'd  ha'  thought  they'd  ha'  come  so 
soon  1 ' 

83 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

The  bitter  placidity  of  Winterborne's  look  hinted 
the  misgivings  he  did  not  care  to  express.  *  Have 
you  got  the  celery  ready  ?  '  he  asked  quickly. 

'  Now,  that's  a  thing  I  never  could  mind ;  no,  not 
if  you'd  pay  me  in  silver  and  gold ! '  said  Creedle. 
*  And  I  don't  care  who  the  man  is,  I  says  that  a 
stick  of  celery  that  isn't  scrubbed  with  the  scrubbing- 
brush  is  not  clean.* 

*  Very  well,  very  well !  I'll  attend  to  it.  You  go 
and  get  'em  comfortable  indoors.' 

He  hastened  to  the  garden,  and  soon  returned, 
tossing  the  stalks  to  Creedle,  who  was  still  in  a  tragic 
mood.  *  If  ye'd  ha'  married,  d'ye  see,  maister,'  he 
murmured,  *  this  calamity  couldn't  have  happened 
to  us ! ' 

Everything  being  at  last  under  way,  the  oven  set, 
and  all  done  that  could  insure  the  supper  turning 
up  ready  at  some  time  or  other,  Giles  and  his  friends 
entered  the  parlour,  where  the  Melburys  again 
dropped  into  position  as  guests,  though  the  room 
was  not  nearly  so  warm  and  cheerful  as  the  blazing 
bakehouse.  Others  now  arrived,  among  them  Farmer 
Cawtree  and  the  hollow-turner,  and  tea  went  off  very 
well. 

Grace's  disposition  to  make  the  best  of  every- 
thing, and  to  wink  at  deficiencies  in  Winterborne's 
way  of  living,  was  so  uniform  and  persistent  that  he 
suspected  her  of  seeing  even  more  deficiencies  than 
he  was  aware  of.  That  suppressed  sympathy  which 
had  showed  in  her  face  ever  since  her  arrival  told 
him  as  much  too  plainly. 

*  This  muddling  style  of  housekeeping  is  what 
you've  not  lately  been  used  to,  I  suppose  "^  '  he  said 
when  they  were  a  little  apart. 

*  No ;  but  I  like  it ;  it  reminds  me  so  pleasantly 
that  everything  here  in  dear  old  Hintock  is  just  as  it 
used  to  be.  The  oil  is — not  quite  nice;  but  every- 
thing else  is.* 

•The  oil?' 

84 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

•  On  the  chairs,  I  mean  ;  because  it  gets  on  one's 
dress.     Still,  mine  is  not  a  new  one.' 

Giles  found  that  the  boy,  in  his  zeal  to  make 
things  look  bright,  had  smeared  the  chairs  with  some 
greasy  furniture-polish,  and  refrained  from  rubbing  it 
dry  in  order  not  to  diminish  the  mirror-like  effect  that 
the  mixture  produced  as  laid  on.  Giles  apologized 
and  scolded  the  boy;  but  he  felt  that  the  fates  were 
against  him. 


Supper-time  came,  and  with  it  the  hot-baked  meats 
from  the  oven,  laid  on  a  snowy  cloth  fresh  from  the 
press,  and  reticulated  with  folds  as  in  Flemish  Last- 
Suppers.  Creedle  and  the  boy  fetched  and  carried 
with  amazing  alacrity ;  the  latter,  to  mollify  his 
superior,  and  make  things  pleasant,  expressing  his 
admiration  of  Creedle's  cleverness  when  they  were 
alone. 

*  I  s'pose  the  time  when  you  learnt  all  these 
knowing  things,  Mr.  Creedle,  was  when  you  was  in 
the  militia  ?  ' 

*  Well,  yes.  I  seed  the  world  that  year  somewhat, 
certainly,  and  mastered  many  arts  of  strange,  dashing 
life.  Not  but  that  Giles  has  worked  hard  in  helping 
me  to  bring  things  to  such  perfection  to-day.  "  Giles,'* 
says  I,  though  he's  maister.  Not  that  I  should  call  'n 
maister  by  rights,  for  his  father  growed  up  side  by 
side  with  me,  as  if  one  mother  had  twinned  us  and 
been  our  nourishing.' 

*  I  s'pose  your  memory  can  reach  a  long  way  back 
into  history,  Mr.  Creedle  ?  * 

*  O  yes.  Ancient  days,  when  there  was  battles, 
and  famines,  and  hang-fairs,  and  other  pomps,  seem 
to  me  as  yesterday.  Ah,  many's  the  patriarch  I've 
seed  come  and  go  in  this  parish  !  There,  he's  calling 
for  more  plates.  Lord,  why  can't  'em  turn  their 
plates  bottom  upward  for  pudding,  as  we  bucks  used 
to  do  in  former  days  ! ' 

Meanwhile  in  the  adjoining  room  Giles  was  pre- 

S6 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

siding  in  a  half-unconscious  state.  He  could  not  get 
over  the  initial  failures  in  his  scheme  for  advancing 
his  suit ;  and  hence  he  did  not  know  that  he  was 
eating  mouthfuls  of  bread  and  nothing  else,  and 
continually  snuffing  the  two  candles  next  him  till 
he  had  reduced  them  to  mere  glimmers  drowned  in 
their  own  grease.  Creedle  now  appeared  with  a 
specially  prepared  stew,  which  he  served  by  elevating 
the  little  three-legged  crock  that  contained  it  and 
tilting  the  contents  into  a  platter  on  the  table,  ex- 
claiming simultaneously,  *  Draw  back,  gentlemen  and 
ladies,  please  ! '  | 

A  splash  followed.  Grace  gave  a  quick  involun- 
tary nod  and  blink,  and  put  her  handkerchief  to  her 
face.  j 

*  Good  heavens !  what  did  you  do  that  for, 
Creedle  ?  *  said  Giles  sternly,  jumping  up.  t 

*  'Tis  how  I  do  it  when  they  bain't  here,  maister,' 
mildly  expostulated  Creedle,  in  an  aside  audible  to  all 
the  company. 

*  Well,  yes — but — *  replied  Giles.  He  went  over 
to  Grace,  and  hoped  none  of  it  had  gone  into  her  eye. 

*0  no,'  she  said.  'Only  a  sprinkle  on  my  face. 
It  was  nothing.' 

'  Kiss  it  and  make  it  well,'  gallantly  observed  Mr. 
Cawtree. 

Miss  Melbury  blushed. 

The  timber-merchant  replied  quickly,  *  O,  it  is 
nothing !  She  must  bear  these  little  mishaps.'  But 
there  could  be  discerned  in  his  face  something  which 
said,  *  I  ought  to  have  foreseen  all  this,  and  kept  her 
away.' 

Giles  himself,  since  the  untoward  beginning  of  the 
feast,  had  not  quite  liked  to  see  Grace  present.  He 
wished  he  had  not  asked  such  people  as  Cawtree  and 
the  hollow- turner.  He  had  done  it,  in  dearth  of  other 
friends,  that  the  room  might  not  appear  empty.  In 
his  mind's  eye,  before  the  event,  they  had  been  the 
mere  background  or  padding  of  the  scene ;  but  some- 

8/ 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

how  in  the  reality  they  were  the  most  prominent 
personages  there. 

After  supper  they  sat  down  to  cards ;  Cawtree 
and  the  hollow-turner  monopolizing  the  new  packs  for 
an  interminable  game  of  langterloo,  in  which  a  lump 
of  chalk  was  incessantly  used — a  game  those  two 
always  played  wherever  they  were,  taking  a  solitary 
candle  and  going  to  a  private  table  in  a  corner  with 
the  mien  of  persons  bent  on  weighty  matters.  The 
rest  of  the  company  on  this  account  were  obliged 
to  put  up  with  old  packs  for  their  round  game,  that 
had  been  lying  by  in  a  drawer  ever  since  the  time  that 
Giles's  grandmother  was  alive.  Each  card  had  a 
great  stain  in  the  middle  of  its  back,  produced  by  the 
touch  of  generations  of  damp  and  excited  thumbs,  now 
fleshless  in  the  grave  ;  and  the  kings  and  queens 
wore  a  decayed  expression  of  feature,  as  if  they  were 
rather  an  impecunious  dethroned  dynasty  hiding  in 
obscure  slums  than  real  regal  characters.  Every  now 
and  then  the  comparatively  few  remarks  of  the  players 
at  the  round  game  were  harshly  intruded  on  by  the 
langterloo  jingle  of  Farmer  Cawtree  and  the  hollow- 
turner  from  the  back  of  the  room  : 

*  And  I'  will  hold'  a  wa'-ger  with  you' 
That  air  these  marks'  are  thirt'-y  two  I ' 

accompanied  by  rapping  strokes  with  the  chalk  on  the 
table  :  then  an  exclamation,  an  argument,  a  dealing  of 
the  cards ;  then  the  commencement  of  the  rhymes 
anew. 

The  timber-merchant  showed  his  feelings  by  talk- 
ing with  a  reserved  weight  in  his  words,  and  by 
praising  the  party  in  a  patronizing  tone,  when 
Winterborne  expressed  his  fear  that  he  and  his  were 
not  enjoying  themselves. 

'  O  yes,  yes ;  pretty  much.  What  handsome 
glasses  those  are  !  I  didn't  know  you  had  such  glasses 
in  the  house.  Now,  Lucy  [to  his  wife],  you  ought  to 
get  some  like  them  for  ourselves,'     And  when  they 

88 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

had  abandoned  cards,  and  Winterborne  was  talking  to 
Melbury  by  the  fire,  it  was  the  timber-merchant  who 
stood  with  his  back  to  the  mantel  in  a  proprietary 
attitude ;  from  which  post  of  vantage  he  critically 
regarded  Giles's  person,  rather  as  a  superficies  than  as 
a  solid  with  ideas  and  feelings  inside  it ;  saying,  '  What 
a  splendid  coat  that  one  is  you  have  on,  Giles.  I 
can't  get  such  coats.     You  dress  better  than  I.' 

After  supper  there  was  a  dance,  the  bandsmen 
from  Great  Hintock  having  arrived  some  time  before. 
Grace  had  been  away  from  home  so  long,  and  was 
so  drilled  in  new  dances,  that  she  had  forgotten  the 
old  figures,  and  hence  did  not  join  in  the  movement. 
Then  Giles  felt  that  all  was  over.  As  for  her,  she 
was  thinking,  as  she  watched  the  gyrations,  of  a  very 
different  measure  that  she  had  been  accustomed  to 
tread  with  a  bevy  of  sylph-like  creatures  in  muslin  in 
the  music-room  of  a  large  house,  most  of  whom  were 
now  moving  in  scenes  widely  removed  from  this,  both 
as  regarded  place  and  character. 

A  woman  she  did  not  know  came  and  offered  to 
tell  her  fortune  with  the  abandoned  cards.  Grace 
assented  to  the  proposal,  and  the  woman  told  her 
tale  unskilfully,  for  want  of  practice,  as  she  declared. 

Mr.  Melbury  was  standing  by,  and  exclaimed  con- 
temptuously, *  Tell  her  fortune  indeed  !  Her  fortune 
has  been  told  by  men  of  science — what  do  you  call 
'em  ?  Phrenologists.  You  can't  teach  her  anything 
new.  She's  been  too  far  among  the  wise  ones  to  be 
astonished  at  anything  she  can  hear  among  us  folks 
in  Hintock.' 

At  last  the  time  came  for  breaking  up,  Melbury 
and  his  family  being  the  earliest  to  leave,  the  two 
card-players  still  pursuing  their  game  doggedly  in  the 
corner,  where  they  had  completely  covered  Giles's 
mahogany  table  with  chalk  scratches.  The  Melburys 
walked  home,  the  distance  being  short  and  the  night 
clear. 

'Well,   Giles   is  a   very  good  fellow,    said    Mr. 

39 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

Melbury,  as  they  struck  down  the  lane  under  boughs 
which  formed  a  black  filigree  in  which  the  stars  seemed 
set. 

*  Certainly  he  is.'  Grace  spoke  quickly,  and  in 
such  a  tone  as  to  show  that  he  stood  no  lower,  if  no 
higher,  in  her  regard  than  he  had  stood  before. 

When  they  were  opposite  an  opening  through 
which,  by  day,  the  doctor's  house  could  be  seen,  they 
observed  a  light  in  one  of  his  rooms,  although  it  was 
now  about  two  o'clock. 

*  The  doctor  is  not  abed  yet,'  said  Mrs.  Melbury. 

*  Hard  study,  no  doubt,'  said  her  husband. 

*  One  would  think  that,  as  he  seems  to  have  nothing 
to  do  about  here  by  day,  he  could  at  least  afford  to  go 
to  bed  early  at  night.  'Tis  astonishing  how  little  we 
see  of  him.' 

Melbury's  mind  seemed  to  turn  with  much  relief 
to  the  contemplation  of  Mr.  Fitzpiers  after  the  scenes 
of  the  evening.  *  It  is  natural  enough,'  he  replied. 
*  What  can  a  man  of  that  sort  find  to  interest 
him  in  Hintock.**  I  don't  expect  he'll  stay  here 
long.' 

His  thoughts  then  reverted  to  Giles's  party,  and 
when  they  were  nearly  home  he  spoke  again,  his 
daughter  being  a  few  steps  in  advance :  *  It  is  hardly 
the  line  of  life  for  a  girl  like  Grace,  after  what  she's 
been  accustomed  to.  I  didn't  foresee  that,  in  sending 
her  to  boarding-school  and  letting  her  travel  and  what 
not,  to  make  her  a  good  bargain  for  Giles,  I  should  be 
really  spoiling  her  for  him.  Ah,  'tis  a  thousand  pities! 
But  he  ought  to  have  her — he  ought ! ' 

At  this  moment  the  two  chalk-marking,  langterloo 
men,  having  at  last  really  finished  their  play,  could  be 
heard  coming  along  in  the  rear,  vociferously  singing  a 
song  to  march-time,  and  keeping  vigorous  step  to  the 
same  in  far-reaching  strides — 

*  .  .  .  .  said  she, 
•*  A  maid  again  I  never  shall  be, 
Till  apples  grow  on  an  orange  tree  1 "' 
90 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

J  The  timber-merchant  turned  indignantly  to  Mrs. 
Melbury.  *  That's  the  sort  of  society  we've  been 
asked  to  meet ! '  he  said.  *  For  us  old  folk  it  didn't 
matter ;  but  for  Grace — Giles  should  have  known 
better ! ' 

Meanwhile,  in  the  empty  house  from  which  the 
guests  had  just  cleared  out,  the  subject  of  their  dis- 
course was  walking  from  room  to  room  surveying  the 
general  displacement  of  furniture  with  no  ecstatic  feel- 
ing ;  rather  the  reverse  indeed.  At  last  he  entered 
the  bakehouse,  and  found  there  Robert  Creedle  sitting 
over  the  embers,  also  lost  in  contemplation.  Winter- 
borne  sat  down  beside  him. 

'Well,  Robert,  you  must  be  tired.  You'd  better 
get  on  to  bed.' 

'Ay,  ay,  Giles — what  do  I  call  ye?  Maister,  I 
would  say.  But  'tis  well  to  think  the  day  is  done, 
when  'tis  done.' 

Winterborne  had  abstractedly  taken  the  poker, 
and  with  a  wrinkled  forehead  was  ploughing  abroad 
the  wood-embers  on  the  wide  hearth,  till  it  was  like 
a  vast  scorching  Sahara,  with  red-hot  boulders  lying 
about  everywhere.  *  Do  you  think  it  went  off  well, 
Creedle  ?  '  he  asked. 

*  The  victuals  did ;  that  I  know.  And  the  drink 
did  ;  that  I  steadfastly  believe,  from  the  holler  sound 
of  the  barrels.  Good  honest  drink  'twere,  the  headiest 
drink  I  ever  brewed  ;  and  the  best  wine  that  berries 
could  rise  to ;  and  the  briskest  Horner-and-CIeeves 
cider  ever  wrung  down,  leaving  out  the  spice  and 
sperrits  I  put  into  it,  while  that  egg-flip  would  ha' 
passed  through  muslin,  so  little  criddled  'twere.  'Twas 
good  enough  to  make  any  king's  heart  merry — ay,  to 
make  his  whole  carcase  smile  !  Still,  I  don't  deny 
I'm  afeard  some  things  didn't  go  well  with  He  and 
his.'  Creedle  nodded  in  a  direction  which  signified 
where  the  Melburys  lived. 

*  I'm  afraid,  too,  that  it  was  a  failure  there.' 

91 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

'If  so,  'twere  doomed  to  be  so.  Not  but  what 
that  slug  might  as  well  have  come  upon  anybody  else's 
plate  as  hers.* 

•What  slug?' 

*  Well,  maister,  there  was  a  little  small  one  upon 
the  edge  of  her  plate  when  I  brought  it  out,  and 
so  it  must  have  been  in  her  few  leaves  of  winter- 
green.' 

*  How  the  deuce  did  a  slug  get  there  ? ' 

*  That  I  don't  know  no  more  than  the  dead ;  but 
there  my  gentleman  was.' 

'  But,  Robert,  of  all  places,  that  was  where  he 
shouldn't  have  been ! ' 

*  Well,  'twas  his  native  home,  come  to  that ;  and 
where  else  could  we  expect  him  to  be  ?  I  don't  care 
who  the  man  is,  slugs  and  caterpillars  always  will 
lurk  in  close  to  the  stump  of  cabbages  in  that  tanta- 
lizing way.* 

*  He  wasn't  alive,  I  suppose  ? '  said  Giles,  with  a 
shudder  on  Grace's  account. 

*  O  no.  He  was  well  boiled.  I  warrant  him  well 
boiled.  God  forbid  that  a  /tve  slug  should  be  seed 
on  any  plate  of  victuals  that's  served  by  Robert 
Creedle.  ,  .  .  But  Lord,  there ;  I  don't  mind  'em  my- 
self— them  green  ones  ;  for  they  were  born  on  cabbage, 
and  they've  lived  on  cabbage,  so  they  must  be  made 
of  cabbage.  But  she,  the  close-mouthed  little  lady, 
she  didn't  say  a  word  about  it ;  though  'twould  have 
made  good  small  conversation  as  to  the  nater  of  such 
creatures ;  especially  as  wit  ran  short  among  us  some- 
times.' 

*  O  yes — 'tis  all  over ! '  murmured  Giles  to  him- 
self, shaking  his  head  over  the  glooming  plain  of 
embers,  and  lining  his  forehead  more  than  ever.  *  Do 
you  know,  Robert,'  he  said,  '  that  she's  been  accus- 
tomed to  servants  and  everything  superfine  these 
many  years  .'^  How,  then,  could  she  stand  our 
ways  ? ' 

'Well,  all   I  can  say  is,  then,  that  she  ought  to 

92 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

hob-and-nob  elsewhere.  They  shouldn't  have  schooled 
her  so  monstrous  high,  or  else  bachelor-men  shouldn't 
give  randys,  or  if  they  do  give  'em,  only  to  their  own 
race.* 

*  Perhaps   that's   true,'   said   Winterborne   rising, 
and  yawning  a  sigh. 


XI 

*  'Tis  a  pity — a  thousand  pities !  *  her  father  kept 
saying  next  morning  at  breakfast,  Grace  being  still 
in  her  bedroom. 

Here  was  the  fact  which  could  not  be  disguised  : 
since  seeing  what  an  immense  change  her  last  twelve 
months  of  absence  had  produced  in  his  daughter, 
after  the  heavy  sum  per  annum  that  he  had  been 
spending  for  several  years  upon  her  education,  he 
was  reluctant  to  let  her  marry  Giles  Winterborne, 
indefinitely  occupied  as  woodsman,  cider-merchant, 
apple-farmer,  and  what  not,  even  were  she  willing  to 
marry  him  herself 

But  how  could  he,  with  any  self-respect,  obstruct 
Winterborne's  suit  at  this  stage,  and  nullify  a  scheme 
he  had  laboured  to  promote — was,  indeed,  mechani- 
cally promoting  at  this  moment  ?  A  crisis  was  ap- 
proaching, mainly  as  a  result  of  his  contrivances  ;  and 
it  would  have  to  be  met. 

*  She  will  be  his  wife,  if  you  don't  upset  her  notion 
that  she's  bound  to  accept  him  as  an  understood 
thing,'  said  Mrs.  Melbury.  *  Bless  you,  she'll  soon 
shake  down  here  in  Hintock,  and  be  content  with 
Giles's  way  of  living,  which  he'll  improve  with  what 
money  she'll  have  from  you.  'Tis  the  strangeness 
after  her  genteel  life  that  makes  her  feel  uncomfortable 
at  first.  Why,  when  /  saw  Hintock  the  first  time  I 
thought  I  never  could  like  it.  But  things  gradually 
get  familiar,  and  stone  floors  seem  not  so  very  cold 
and   hard,    and    the    hooting    of    owls   not    so   very 

94 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

dreadful,  and  loneliness  not  so  very  lonely  after   a 
while.' 

*  Yes,  I  believe  'ee.  That's  just  it.  I  know  Grace 
will  gradually  sink  down  to  our  level  again,  and  catch 
our  manners  and  way  of  speaking,  and  feel  a  drowsy 
content  in  being  Giles's  wife.  But  I  can't  bear  the 
thought  of  dragging  down  to  that  old  level  as  pro- 
mising a  piece  of  maidenhood  as  ever  lived — fit  to 
ornament  a  palace  wi,'  that  I've  taken  so  much 
trouble  to  lift  up.  Fancy  her  white  hands  getting 
redder  every  day,  and  her  tongue  losing  its  pretty 
up-country  curl  in  talking,  and  her  bounding  walk 
becoming  the  regular  Hintock  shail-and- wamble  ! ' 

'She  may  shail ;  but  she'll  never  wamble,'  replied 
his  wife  decisively. 

When  Grace  came  downstairs  he  complained  of 
her  lying  in  bed  so  late  ;  not  so  much  moved  by  a 
particular  objection  to  that  form  of  indulgence  as 
discomposed  by  these  other  reflections. 

The  corners  of  her  pretty  mouth  dropped  a  little 
down.  '  You  used  to  complain  with  justice  when  I 
was  a  girl,'  she  said.  *  But  I  am  a  woman  now,  and 
can  judge  for  myself.  .  .  .  But  it  is  not  that :  it 
is  something  else!'  Instead  of  sitting  down  she 
went  outside  the  door. 

He  was  sorry.  The  petulance  that  relatives  show 
towards  each  other  is  in  truth  directed  against  that 
intangible  Cause  which  has  shaped  the  situation  no 
less  for  the  offenders  than  the  offended,  but  is  too 
elusive  to  be  discerned  and  cornered  by  poor  humanity 
in  irritated  mood.  Melbury  followed  her.  She  had 
rambled  on  to  the  paddock,  where  the  white  frost 
lay,  making  the  grass  rustle  like  paper-shavings  under 
their  feet,  and  where  starlings  in  flocks  of  twenties 
and  thirties  were  walking  about,  watched  by  a  com- 
fortable family  of  sparrows  perched  in  a  line  along 
the  string-course  of  the  chimney,  and  preening  them- 
selves in  the  rays  of  the  sun. 

*  Come  in  to  breakfast,  my  girl ! '  he  said.     *  And 

95 


\ 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

as  to  Giles,  use  your  own  mind.     Whatever  pleases 
you  will  please  me.* 

*  I  am  promised  to  him,  father ;  and  I  cannot  help 
thinking  that  in  honour  I  ought  to  marry  him,  when- 
ever I  do  marry.* 

He  had  a  strong  suspicion  that  somewhere  in  the 
bottom  of  her  heart  there  pulsed  an  old  simple  in- 
digenous feeling  favourable  to  Giles,  though  it  had 
become  overlaid  with  implanted  tastes.  *  Very  well,' 
he  said.  *  But  I  hope  I  shan't  lose  you  yet.  Come 
in  to  breakfast.  What  did  you  think  of  the  inside 
of  Hintock  House  the  other  day?' 

*  I  liked  it  much.' 

*  Different  from  friend  Winterborne's  ?  * 

She  said  nothing  ;  but  he  who  knew  her  was  aware 
that  she  meant  by  her  silence  to  reproach  him  with 
drawing  cruel  comparisons. 

*  Mrs.  Charmond  has  asked  you  to  come  again — 
when,  did  you  say  ? ' 

*  She  thought  Tuesday ;  but  would  send  the  day 
before  to  let  me  know  if  it  suited  her.'  And  with 
this  subject  upon  their  lips  they  entered  to  breakfast. 

Tuesday  came,  but  no  message  from  Mrs.  Char- 
mond. Nor  was  there  any  on  Wednesday.  In  brief, 
a  fortnight  slipped  by  without  a  sign,  and  it  looked 
suspiciously  as  if  Mrs.  Charmond  was  not  going  further 
in  the  direction  of  *  taking  up '  Grace  at  present. 

Her  father  reasoned  thereon.  Immediately  after 
his  daughter's  two  indubitable  successes  with  Mrs. 
Charmond — the  interview  in  the  wood  and  the  visit 
to  the  House — she  had  attended  Winterborne's  party. 
No  doubt  the  out-and-out  joviality  of  that  gathering 
had  made  it  a  topic  in  the  neighbourhood,  and  that 
every  one  present  as  guests  had  been  widely  spoken 
of — Grace,  with  her  exceptional  qualities,  above  all. 
What  then  so  natural  as  that  Mrs.  Charmond  should 
have  heard  the  village  news,  and  become  quite  dis- 
appointed in  her  expectations  of  Grace  at  finding  she 
kept  such  company  ? 

96 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

Full  of  this  post  hoc  argument  Mr.  Melbury  over- 
looked the  infinite  throng  of  other  possible  reasons 
and  unreasons  for  a  woman  changing  her  mind.  For 
instance,  while  knowing  that  his  Grace  was  attractive 
he  quite  forgot  that  Mrs.  Charmond  had  also  great 
pretensions  to  beauty. 

So  it  was  settled  in  his  mind  that  her  sudden 
mingling  with  the  villagers  at  the  unlucky  Winter- 
borne  s  was  the  cause  of  her  most  grievous  loss,  as  he 
deemed  it,  in  the  direction  of  Hintock  House. 

*  Tis  a  great  sacrifice ! '  he  would  repeat  to  him- 
self.    *  I  am  ruining  her  for  conscience'  sake !  * 

It  was  one  morning  later  on,  while  these  things 
were  agitating  his  mind,  that  something  darkened  the 
window  just  as  they  finished  breakfast.  Looking  up 
they  saw  Giles  in  person,  mounted  on  horseback,  and 
straining  his  neck  forward,  as  he  had  been  doing 
for  some  time,  to  catch  their  attention  through  the 
window.  Grace  had  been  the  first  to  see  him,  and 
involuntarily  exclaimed,  'There  he  is — and  a  new 
horse ! ' 

On  their  faces,  as  they  regarded  Giles,  were 
written  their  suspended  thoughts  and  compound  feel- 
ings concerning  him,  could  he  have  read  them  through 
those  old  panes.  But  he  saw  nothing :  his  features 
just  now  were,  for  a  wonder,  lit  up  with  a  red  smile  at 
some  other  idea.  So  they  rose  from  breakfast  and 
went  to  the  door,  Grace  with  an  anxious,  wistful 
manner,  her  father  in  a  reverie,  Mrs.  Melbury  placid 
and  inquiring. 

*  We  have  come  out  to  look  at  your  horse,*  she  said. 
It  could  be  seen  that  he   was   pleased   at    their 

attention,  and  explained  that  he  had  ridden  a  mile 
or  two  to  try  the  animal's  paces.  *  I  bought  her,' 
he  added,  with  warmth  so  severely  repressed  as  to 
seem  indifference,  *  because  she  has  been  used  to 
carry  a  lady.' 

Still  Mr.  Melbury  did  not  brighten.  Mrs.  Melbury 
said,  '  And  is  she  quiet  ? ' 

97 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

Winterborne  assured  her  that  there  was  no  doubt 
of  it.  *  I  took  care  of  that.  She's  twenty-one,  and 
very  clever  for  her  age.' 

'  Well,  get  off  and  come  in,*  said  Melbury 
brusquely  ;  and  Giles  dismounted  accordingly. 

This  event  was  the  concrete  result  of  Winter- 
borne's  thoughts  during  the  past  week  or  two.  The 
want  of  success  with  his  evening  party  he  had  accepted 
in  as  philosophic  a  mood  as  he  was  capable  of;  but 
there  had  been  enthusiasm  enough  left  in  him  one 
day  at  Sherton  Abbas  market  to  purchase  the  mare, 
which  had  belonged  to  a  neighbouring  parson  with 
several  daughters,  and  was  offered  him  to  carry  either 
a  gentleman  or  a  lady,  and  to  do  odd  jobs  of  carting 
and  agriculture  at  a  pinch.  This  obliging  quadruped 
seemed  to  furnish  Giles  with  a  means  of  reinstating 
himself  in  Melbury's  good  opinion  as  a  man  of  con- 
siderateness,  by  throwing  out  equestrian  possibilities 
to  Grace  if  she  became  his  wife. 

The  latter  looked  at  him  with  intensified  interest 
this  morning,  in  the  mood  which  is  altogether  peculiar 
to  woman's  nature,  and  which,  when  reduced  into 
plain  words,  seems  as  impossible  as  the  penetrability 
of  matter — that  of  entertaining  a  tender  pity  for  the 
object  of  her  own  unnecessary  coldness.  The  imper- 
turbable poise  which  marked  Winterborne  in  general 
was  enlivened  now  by  a  freshness  and  animation  that 
set  a  brightness  in  his  eye  and  on  his  cheek.  Mrs. 
Melbury  asked  him  to  have  some  breakfast,  and  he 
pleasurably  replied  that  he  would  join  them,  not  per- 
ceiving that  they  had  all  finished  the  meal,  and  that 
the  tune  piped  by  the  kettle  denoted  it  to  be  nearly 
empty ;  so  that  fresh  water  had  to  be  brought  in,  and 
a  general  renovation  of  the  table  carried  out.  Neither 
did  he  know,  so  full  was  he  of  his  tender  ulterior 
object  in  buying  that  horse,  how  the  morning  was 
slipping  away,  nor  how  he  was  keeping  the  family 
from  dispersing  about  their  duties. 

Then  he  told  throughout  the  humorous  story  of 

98 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

the  horse's  purchase,  looking  particularly  grim  at  some 
fixed  object  in  the  room,  a  way  he  always  looked 
when  he  narrated  anything  that  amused  him.  While 
he  was  still  thinking  of  the  scene  he  had  described 
Grace  rose  and  said,  *  I  have  to  go  and  help  my 
mother  now,  Mr.  Winterborne.' 

'H'm.?'  he  ejaculated,  turning  his  eyes  suddenly 
upon  her. 

She  repeated  her  words  with  a  slight  blush  of 
awkwardness ;  whereupon  Giles,  becoming  suddenly 
conscious,  too  conscious,  jumped  up,  saying,  *To  be 
sure,  to  be  sure ! '  and  wished  them  quickly  good- 
morning. 

Nevertheless  he  had  upon  the  whole  strengthened 
his  position,  with  her  at  least.  Time,  too,  was  on  his 
side,  for  (as  her  father  saw  with  regret)  already  the 
homeliness  of  Hintock  life  was  fast  becoming  lost  to 
her  observation  as  a  singularity ;  as  the  momentary 
strangeness  of  a  face  from  which  we  have  for  years 
been  separated  insensibly  passes  off  with  renewed 
intercourse,  and  tones  itself  down  into  identity  with 
the  lineaments  of  the  past. 

Thus  Mr.  Melbury  went  out  of  the  house  still 
unreconciled  to  the  sacrifice  of  the  gem  he  had  been 
at  such  pains  in  mounting.  He  fain  could  hope,  in 
the  secret  nether  chamber  of  his  mind,  that  something 
would  happen  before  the  balance  of  her  feeling  had 
quite  turned  in  Winterborne's  favour,  to  relieve  his 
conscience  and  at  the  same  time  preserve  her  on  her 
elevated  plane. 


XII 

It  was  a  day  of  rather  bright  weather  for  the  season. 
Miss  Melbury  went  out  for  a  morning  walk,  and  her 
ever-regardful  father,  having  an  hour's  leisure,  offered 
to  walk  with  her. 

The  breeze  was  fresh  and  quite  steady,  filtering 
itself  through  the  denuded  mass  of  twigs  without 
swaying  them,  but  making  the  point  of  each  ivy-leaf 
on  the  trunks  scratch  its  underlying  neighbour  rest- 
lessly. Grace's  lips  sucked  in  this  native  air  of  hers 
like  milk.  They  soon  reached  a  place  where  the 
wood  ran  down  into  a  corner,  and  they  went  out- 
side it  towards  comparatively  open  ground.  Having 
looked  round  they  were  intending  to  re-enter  the 
copse  when  a  panting  fox  emerged  with  a  dragging 
brush,  trotted  past  them  tamely  as  a  domestic  cat, 
and  disappeared  amid  some  dead  fern.  They  walked 
on,  her  father  merely  observing  after  watching  the 
animal,  *  They  are  hunting  somewhere  near.* 

Further  up  they  saw  in  the  mid -distance  the 
hounds  running  hither  and  thither,  as  if  the  scent  lay 
cold  that  day.  Soon  members  of  the  hunt  appeared 
on  the  scene,  and  it  was  evident  that  the  chase  had 
been  stultified  by  general  puzzle-headedness  as  to  the 
whereabouts  of  the  intended  victim.  In  a  minute  a 
gentleman-farmer,  panting  with  Actseonic  excitement, 
rode  up  to  the  two  pedestrians,  and  Grace  being  a  few 
steps  in  advance  he  asked  her  if  she  had  seen  the  fox. 

*  Yes,'  said  she.  *  I  saw  him  some  time  ago — just 
out  there,' 

100 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

*  Did  you  cry  Halloo ?  *  ..,.:.*.:, 

*  I  said  nothing.* 

*  Then  why  the  devil  didn't  you,  or  get  the  old 
buffer  to  do  it  for  you  ?*  said  the  man  as  he  cantered 
away. 

She  looked  rather  disconcerted,  and  observing  her 
father's  face  saw  that  it  was  quite  red. 

*  He  ought  not  to  have  spoken  to  'ee  like  that ! ' 
said  the  old  man  in  the  tone  of  one  whose  heart  was 
bruised,  though  it  was  not  by  the  epithet  applied  to 
himself.  *  And  he  wouldn't  if  he  had  been  a  gentle- 
man. 'Twas  not  the  language  to  use  to  a  woman  of 
any  niceness.  You  so  well  read  and  cultivated — how 
could  he  expect  ye  to  go  shouting  a  view-halloo  like  a 
farm  tomboy !  Hasn't  it  cost  me  near  a  hundred  a 
year  to  lift  you  out  of  all  that,  so  as  to  show  an 
example  to  the  neighbourhood  of  what  a  woman  can 
be  ?  Grace,  shall  I  tell  you  the  secret  of  it  ?  'Twas 
because  /  was  in  your  company.  If  a  black-coated 
squire  or  pa'son  had  been  walking  with  you  instead 
of  me  he  wouldn't  have  spoken  so.* 

*  No,  no,  father;  there's  nothing  in  you  rough  or 
ill-mannered !  * 

*I  tell  you  it  is  that!  I've  noticed,  and  I've 
noticed  it  many  times,  that  a  woman  takes  her  colour 
from  the  man  she's  walking  with.  The  woman  who 
looks  an  unquestionable  lady  when  she's  with  a 
polished-up  fellow,  looks  a  tawdry  imitation  article 
when  she's  bobbing  and  nobbing  with  a  homely  blade. 
You  shan't  be  treated  like  that  for  long,  or  at  least 
your  children  shan't.  You  shall  have  somebody  to 
walk  with  you  who  looks  more  of  a  dandy  than  I — 
please  God  you  shall !  * 

*  But,  my  dear  father,'  she  said  much  distressed, 
*  I  don't  mind  at  all.  I  don't  wish  for  more  honour 
than  I  already  have  I ' 

*  A  perplexing  and  ticklish  possession  is  a 
daughter,'  according  to  the  Greek  poet,  and  to 
nobody  was  one  ever  more  so  than  to  Mclbury.     As 

701 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

for  Grace,  she  began  to  feel  troubled ;  she  did  not 
perhaps  wish,  there  and  then,  to  devote  her  life 
unambitiously  to  Giles  Winterborne,  but  she  was 
more  and  more  uneasy  at  being  the  social  hope  of  the 
family. 

*  You  would  like  to  have  more  honour,  if  it 
pleases  me  ? '  asked  her  father,  in  continuation  of  the 
subject. 

Despite  her  feeling  she  assented  to  this.  His 
reasoning  had  not  been  without  weight  upon  her. 

*  Grace,'  he  said,  just  before  they  had  reached  the 
house,  *  if  it  costs  me  my  life  you  shall  marry  well ! 
To-day  has  shown  me  that  whatever  a  young  woman's 
niceness  she  stands  for  nothing  alone.  You  shall 
marry  well' 

He  breathed  heavily,  and  his  breathing  was 
caught  up  by  the  breeze,  which  seemed  to  sigh  a 
soft  remonstrance. 

She  looked  calmly  at  him.  *  And  how  about  Mr. 
Winterborne  ?  *  she  asked.  *  I  mention  it,  father,  not 
as  a  matter  of  sentiment,  but  as  a  question  of  keeping 
faith.' 

The  timber-merchant's  eyes  fell  for  a  moment. 
*  I  don't  know — I  don't  know,'  he  said.  *  'Tis  a 
trying  strait.  Well,  well;  there's  no  hurry.  We'll 
wait  and  see  how  he  gets  on.* 

That  evening  he  called  her  into  his  room,  a  snug 
little  apartment  behind  the  large  parlour.  It  had 
at  one  time  been  part  of  the  bakehouse,  with  the 
ordinary  oval  brick  oven  in  the  wall ;  but  Mr. 
Melbury  in  turning  it  into  an  office  had  built  into 
the  cavity  an  iron  safe,  which  he  used  for  holding  his 
private  papers.  The  door  of  the  safe  was  now  open, 
and  his  keys  were  hanging  from  it. 

*  Sit  down,  Grace,  and  keep  me  company,'  he  said. 
*You  may  amuse  yourself  by  looking  over  these.' 
He  threw  out  a  heap  of  papers  before  her. 

*  What  are  they  ?  '  she  asked. 

I02 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

'Securities  of  various  sorts/  He  unfolded  them 
one  by  one.  *  Papers  worth  so  much  money  each. 
Now  here's  a  lot  of  turnpike  bonds,  for  one  thing. 
Would  you  think  that  each  of  these  pieces  of  paper  is 
worth  two  hundred  pounds  ?  * 

'  No,  indeed,  if  you  didn't  say  so.* 

*  'Tis  so  then.  Now  here  are  papers  of  another 
sort.  They  are  for  different  sums  in  the  three  per 
cents.  Now  these  are  Port-Breedy  Harbour  bonds. 
We  have  a  great  stake  in  that  harbour,  you  know, 
because  I  send  off  timber  there.  Open  the  rest  at 
your  pleasure.     They'll  interest  'ee.' 

*  Yes,  I  will,  some  day,'  said  she  rising. 

*  Nonsense,  open  them  now.  You  ought  to  learn 
a  little  of  such  matters.  A  young  lady  of  education 
should  not  be  ignorant  of  money  affairs  altogether. 
Suppose  you  should  be  left  a  widow  some  day,  with 
your  husband's  title-deeds  and  investments  thrown 
upon  your  hands ' 

*  Don't  say  that,  father.  Title-deeds  ;  it  sounds 
so  vain  ! ' 

*  It  does  not.  Come  to  that,  I  have  title-deeds 
myself.  There,  that  piece  of  parchment  represents 
houses  in  Sherton  Abbas.' 

*Yes,  but — '  She  hesitated,  looked  at  the  fire, 
and  went  on  in  a  low  voice,  *  If  what  has  been 
arranged  about  me  should  come  to  anything,  my 
sphere  will  be  quite  a  middling  one.* 

*  Your  sphere  ought  not  to  be  middling,'  he  ex- 
claimed. *  You  said  you  never  felt  more  at  home, 
more  in  your  element,  anywhere  than  you  did  that 
afternoon  with  Mrs.  Charmond,  when  she  showed  you 
her  house,  and  all  her  knick-knacks,  and  made  you  stay 
to  tea  so  nicely  in  her  drawing-room,  surely  you  did ! ' 

*  Yes,  I  did  say  so,'  admitted  Grace. 

*  Was  it  true  ? ' 

*Yes,  I  felt  so  at  the  time.  The  feeling  is  less 
strong  now,  perhaps.* 

*  Ah  !     Now,  though  you  don't  see  it,  your  feeling 

103 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

at  the  time  was  the  right  one,  because  your  mind  and 
body  were  just  in  full  and  fresh  cultivation,  so  that 
going  there  with  her  was  like  meeting  like.  Since 
then  you've  been  staying  with  us,  and  have  fallen 
back  a  little,  and  so  you  don't  feel  your  place  so 
strongly.  Now,  do  as  I  tell  you,  and  look  over  these 
papers,  and  see  what  you'll  be  worth  some  day.  For 
they'll  all  be  yours,  you  know ;  who  have  I  got  to 
leave  'em  to  but  you  ?  Perhaps  when  your  education 
is  backed  up  by  what  these  papers  represent,  and  that 
backed  up  by  another  such  a  set  and  their  owner, 
men  such  as  that  fellow  was  this  morning  may  think 
you  a  little  more  than  a  buffer's  girl.' 

So  she  did  as  commanded,  and  opened  each  of  the 
folded  representatives  of  hard  cash  that  her  father  put 
before  her.  To  sow  in  her  heart  cravings  for  social 
position  was  obviously  his  strong  desire,  though  in 
direct  antagonism  to  a  better  feeling  which  had 
hitherto  prevailed  with  him,  and  had,  indeed,  only 
succumbed  that  morning  during  the  ramble. 

She  wished  that  she  was  not  his  worldly  hope  ; 
the  responsibility  of  such  a  position  was  too  great. 
She  had  made  it  for  herself  mainly  by  her  appearance 
and  attractive  behaviour  to  him  since  her  return.  *  If 
I  had  only  come  home  in  a  shabby  dress,  and  tried  to 
speak  roughly,  this  might  not  have  happened,'  she 
thought.  She  deplored  less  the  fact,  however,  than 
the  contingencies. 

Her  father  then  insisted  upon  her  looking  over  his 
cheque-book  and  reading  the  counterfoils.  This  also 
she  obediently  did,  and  at  last  came  to  two  or  three 
which  had  been  drawn  to  defray  some  of  the  late 
expenses  of  her  clothes,  board,  and  education. 

*  I,  too,  cost  a  good  deal,  like  the  horses  and 
waggons  and  corn  ! '  she  said,  looking  up  sorrily. 

*  I  didn't  want  you  to  look  at  those ;  I  merely 
meant  to  give  you  an  idea  of  my  investment  transac- 
tions. But  if  you  do  cost  as  much  as  they,  never 
mind.     You'll  yield  a  better  return.' 

104 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

*  Don't  think  of  me  like  that ! '  she  begged.  •  A 
mere  chattel.' 

*  A  what  ?  Oh,  a  dictionary  word.  Well,  as  that's 
in  your  line  I  don't  forbid  it,  even  if  it  tells  against 
me,'  he  said  good-humouredly.  And  he  looked  her 
proudly  up  and  down. 

A  few  minutes  later  G rammer  Oliver  came  to  tell 
them  that  supper  was  ready,  and  in  giving  the  in- 
formation she  added  incidentally,  *  So  we  shall  soon 
lose  the  mistress  of  HIntock  House  for  some  time, 
I  hear,  Maister  Melbury.  Yes,  she  is  going  off 
to  foreign  parts  to-morrow,  for  the  rest  of  the 
winter  months ;  and  be-chok'd  if  I  don't  wish  I 
could  do  the  same,  for  my  wind-pipe  is  furred  like 
a  flue.' 

When  the  old  woman  had  left  the  room  Melbury 
turned  to  his  daughter  and  said,  '  So,  Grace,  you've 
lost  your  new  friend,  and  your  chance  of  keeping 
her  company  and  writing  her  travels  is  quite  gone 
from  'ee ! ' 

Grace  said  nothing. 

*  Now,'  he  went  on  emphatically,  *  'tis  Winterborne's 
affair  has  done  this.  O  yes,  'tis  !  So  let  me  say  one 
word.  Promise  me  that  you  will  not  meet  him  again 
without  my  knowledge.' 

*  I  never  do  meet  him,  father,  either  without  your 
knowledge  or  with  it.' 

*  So  much  the  better.  I  don't  like  the  look  of  this 
at  all.  And  I  say  it  not  out  of  harshness  to  him, 
poor  fellow,  but  out  of  tenderness  to  you.  For  how 
could  a  woman,  brought  up  delicately  as  you  have 
been,  bear  the  roughness  of  a  life  with  him  ?  * 

She  sighed  ;  it  was  a  sigh  of  sympathy  with  Giles, 
complicated  by  a  sense  of  the  intractability  of  circum- 
stances. 

At  that  same  hour,  and  almost  at  that  same 
minute,  there  was  a  conversation  about  Winterborne 
in  progress  in  the  village  lane,  opposite  Mr.  Melbury's 

105 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

gates,  where   Timothy  Tangs  the  elder  and  Robert 
Creedle  had  accidentally  met. 

The  sawyer  was  asking  Creedle  if  he  had  heard 
what  was  all  over  the  parish,  the  skin  of  his  face  being 
toned  towards  brightness  in  respect  of  it  as  news, 
and  towards  concern  in  respect  of  its  bearings. 

*  Why,  that  poor  little  lonesome  thing,  Marty 
South,  is  likely  to  lose  her  father.  He  was  almost 
well,  but  is  much  worse  again  ;  a  man  all  skin  and 
grief  he  ever  were;  and  if  he  leave  Little  Hintock 
for  a  better  land,  won't  it  make  some  difference  to 
your  good  man  Winterborne,  neighbour  Creedle  ?  ' 

*  Can  I  be  a  prophet  in  Hintock  ?  '  said  Creedle. 
*  I  was  only  shaping  of  such  a  thing  yesterday  in  my 
poor  long-seeing  way  !  It  is  upon  John  South's  life 
that  all  Mr.  Winterborne's  houses  hang.  If  so  be 
South  die  and  so  make  his  decease,  thereupon  the  law 
ordains  that  the  houses  fall  without  the  least  chance 
of  saving  'em  into  Her  hands  at  the  House.  I  told 
him  so ;  but  the  words  of  the  faithful  be  only  as 
wind  1  * 


XIII 

The  news  was  true.  The  life — the  one  fragile  life — 
that  had  been  used  as  a  measuring-tape  of  time  by 
law,  was  in  danger  of  being  frayed  away.  It  was  the 
last  of  a  group  of  lives  which  had  served  this  purpose, 
at  the  end  of  whose  breathings  the  small  homestead 
occupied  by  South  himself,  the  larger  one  of  Giles 
Winterborne,  and  half  a  dozen  others  that  had  been 
in  the  possession  of  various  Hintock  village  families 
for  the  previous  hundred  years,  and  were  now 
Winterborne's,  would  fall  in  and  become  part  of  the 
encompassing  estate. 

Winterborne  walked  up  and  down  his  garden  next 
day  thinking  of  the  contingency.  The  sense  that  the 
paths  he  was  pacing,  the  cabbage-plots,  the  apple- 
trees,  his  dwelling,  cider-cellar,  wring-house,  stables, 
weathercock,  were  all  slipping  away  over  his  head  and 
beneath  his  feet  as  if  they  were  painted  on  a  magic- 
lantern  slide,  was  curious.  In  spite  of  John  South'i 
late  indisposition  he  had  not  anticipated  danger. 

Whilst  he  was  here  in  the  garden  somebody  came 
to  fetch  him.  It  was  Marty  herself,  and  she  showed 
her  distress  by  her  unconsciousness  of  a  cropped  poll. 

*  Father  is  still  so  much  troubled  in  his  mind  about 
that  tree,*  she  said.  *  You  know  the  tree  I  mean, 
Mr.  Winterborne  ?  the  tall  one  in  front  of  the  house 
that  he  thinks  will  blow  down  and  kill  us.  Can 
you  come  and  see  if  you  can  persuade  him  out  of 
his  notion?     I  can  do  nothing.' 

He  accompanied  her  to  the  cottage,  and  she  con- 

107 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

ducted  him  upstairs.  John  South  was  pillowed  up 
in  a  chair  between  the  bed  and  the  window,  exactly 
opposite  the  latter,  towards  which  his  face  was  turned. 

*  Ah,  neighbour  Winterborne,'  he  said.  *  I  wouldn't 
have  minded  if  my  life  had  only  been  my  own  to 
lose ;  I  don't  vallie  it  in  much  of  itself,  and  can  let 
it  go  if  'tis  required  of  me.  But  to  think  what  'tis 
worth  to  you,  a  young  man  rising  in  life,  that  do 
trouble  me !  It  seems  a  trick  of  dishonesty  towards 
ye  to  go  off  at  fifty-five  1  I  could  bear  up,  I  know 
I  could,  if  it  were  not  for  the  tree — yes,  the  tree  'tis 
that's  killing  me.  There  he  stands,  threatening  my 
life  every  minute  that  the  wind  do  blow.  He'll  come 
down  upon  us,  and  squat  us  dead ;  and  what  will  ye 
do  when  the  life  on  your  property  is  taken  away ! ' 

*  Never  you  mind  me — that's  of  no  consequence/ 
said  Giles.     *  Think  of  yourself  alone.* 

He  looked  out  of  the  window  in  the  direction  of 
the  woodman's  gaze.  The  tree  was  a  tall  elm,  familiar 
to  him  from  childhood,  which  stood  at  a  distance  of 
two-thirds  its  own  height  from  the  front  of  South's 
dwelling.  Whenever  the  wind  blew,  as  it  did  now, 
the  tree  rocked,  naturally  enough  ;  and  the  sight  of 
its  motion,  and  sound  of  its  sighs,  had  gradually  bred 
the  terrifying  illusion  in  the  woodman's  mind.  Thus 
he  would  sit  all  day,  in  spite  of  persuasion,  watching 
its  every  sway,  and  listening  to  the  melancholy  Gre- 
gorian melodies  which  the  air  wrung  out  of  it.  This 
fear  it  apparently  was,  rather  than  any  organic  disease, 
which  was  eating  away  the  health  of  John  South. 

As  the  tree  waved  South  waved  his  head,  making 
it  his  fugleman  with  abject  obedience.  *  Ah,  when 
it  was  quite  a  small  tree,'  he  said,  *  and  I  was  a  little 
boy,  I  thought  one  day  of  chopping  it  off  with  my 
hook  to  make  a  clothes-line  prop  with.  But  I  put 
off  doing  it,  and  then  I  again  thought  that  I  would ; 
but  I  forgot  it  and  didn't.  And  at  last  it  got  too 
big,  and  now  'tis  my  enemy,  and  will  be  the  death 
of  me.     Little  did  I  think,  when  I  let  that   sapling 

io8 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

stay,  that  a  time  would  come  when  it  would  torment 
me,  and  dash  me  into  my  grave.' 

*  No,  no,'  said  Winterborne  and  Marty  soothingly. 
But  they  thought  it  possible  that  it  might  hasten 
him  into  his  grave,  though  in  another  way  than  by 
falling. 

*  1  tell  you  what,'  added  Winterborne ;  *  I'll  climb 
up  this  afternoon,  and  shroud  off  the  lower  boughs, 
and  then  it  won't  be  so  heavy,  and  the  wind  won't 
affect  it  so.' 

*  She  won't  allow  it — a  strange  woman  come  from 
nobody  knows  where — she  won't  have  it  done.* 

'You  mean  Mrs.  Charmond.'^  Oh,  she  doesn't 
know  there's  such  a  tree  on  her  estate.  Besides, 
shrouding  is  not  felling,  and  I'll  risk  that  much.' 

He  went  out,  and  when  afternoon  came  he  re- 
turned, took  a  bill-hook  from  the  shed,  and  with  a 
ladder  climbed  into  the  lower  part  of  the  tree,  where 
he  began  lopping  off — *  shrouding '  as  they  called  it 
at  Hintock  —  the  lowest  boughs.  Each  of  these 
quivered  under  his  attack,  bent,  cracked,  and  fell 
into  the  hedge.  Having  cut  away  the  lowest  tier 
he  stepped  off  the  ladder,  climbed  a  few  steps  higher, 
and  attacked  those  at  the  next  level.  Thus  he 
ascended  with  the  progress  of  his  work  far  above 
the  top  of  the  ladder,  cutting  away  his  perches  as 
he  went,  and  leaving  nothing  but  a  bare  stem  below 
him. 

The  work  was  troublesome,  for  the  tree  was  large. 
The  afternoon  wore  on,  turning  dark  and  misty  about 
four  o'clock.  From  time  to  time  Giles  cast  his  eyes 
across  towards  the  bedroom-window  of  South,  where, 
by  the  flickering  fire  in  the  chamber,  he  could  see  the 
old  man  watching  him,  sitting  motionless  with  a  hand 
upon  each  arm  of  the  chair.  Beside  him  sat  Marty, 
also  straining  her  eyes  towards  the  skyey  field  of  his 
operations. 

A  curious  question  suddenly  occurred  to  Winter- 
borne, and  he  stopped  his  chopping.     He  was  oper- 

109 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

ating  on  another  person's  property  to  prolong  the 
years  of  a  lease  by  whose  termination  that  person 
would  considerably  benefit.  In  that  aspect  of  the 
case  he  doubted  if  he  ought  to  go  on.  On  the 
other  hand  he  was  working  to  save  a  man's  life, 
and  this  seemed  to  empower  him  to  adopt  arbitrary 
measures. 

The  wind  had  died  down  to  a  calm,  and  while  he 
was  weighing  the  circumstances  he  saw  coming  along 
the  road  through  the  increasing  mist  a  figure  which, 
indistinct  as  it  was,  he  knew  well.  Grace  Melbury 
was  on  her  way  out  from  the  house,  probably  for  a 
short  evening  walk  before  dark.  He  arranged  himself 
for  a  greeting  from  her,  since  she  could  hardly  avoid 
passing  immediately  beneath  the  tree. 

But  Grace,  though  she  looked  up  and  saw  him, 
was  just  at  that  time  too  full  of  the  words  of  her 
father  to  give  him  any  encouragement.  The  years- 
long  regard  that  she  had  had  for  him  was  not  kindled 
by  her  return  into  a  flame  of  sufficient  brilliancy  to 
make  her  rebellious.  Thinking  that  she  might  not  see 
him,  he  cried,  *  Miss  Melbury,  here  I  am.' 

She  turned  up  her  head  again.  She  was  near 
enough  to  see  the  expression  of  his  face,  and  the 
nails  in  his  soles,  silver-bright  with  constant  walking. 
But  she  did  not  reply ;  and  dropping  her  glance  anew 
went  on. 

Winterborne*s  face  grew  strange ;  he  mused,  and 
proceeded  automatically  with  his  work.  Grace  mean- 
while had  not  gone  far.  She  had  reached  a  gate, 
whereon  she  had  leant  sadly  and  whispered  to  herself, 
'What  shall  I  do.?' 

A  sudden  fog  came  on,  and  she  curtailed  her  walk, 
passing  under  the  tree  again  on  her  return.  Again 
he  addressed  her.  '  Grace,'  he  said,  when  she  was 
close  to  the  trunk,  *  speak  to  me.*  She  gazed  straight 
up,  shook  her  head  without  stopping,  and  went  on  to 
a  little  distance,  where  she  stood  observing  him  from 
behind  the  hedge. 

no 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

Her  coldness  had  been  kindly  meant.     If  it  was  to 
be  done,  she  had  said  to  herself,  it  should  be  begun 
at  once.     While  she  stood  out  of  observation  Giles 
seemed  to  recognize   her   meaning ;    with    a   sudden  ^ 
start  he  worked  on,  climbing  higher  into  the  sky,  and  1 
cutting  himself  off  more  and  more  from  all  intercourse  1 
with   the  sublunary  world.     At  last  he  had  worked  ' 
himself  so  high   up  the  elm,   and   the  mist    had   so 
thickened,  that  he  could  only  just  be  discerned  as  a 
dark  grey  spot  on  the  light  grey  zenith ;  he  would 
have  been  altogether  out  of  notice  but  for  the  stroke 
of  his  bill-hook,  and  the  flight  of  a  bough  downward, 
and  its  crash  upon  the  hedge  at  intervals. 

It  was  not  to  be  done  thus,  after  all :  plainness 
and  candour  were  best.  She  went  back  a  third  time ; 
he  did  not  see  her  now,  and  she  lingeringly  gazed 
up  at  his  unconscious  figure,  loth  to  put  an  end 
to  any  kind  of  hope  that  might  live  on  in  him 
still. 

*  Giles — Mr.  Winterborne,'  she  said. 

His  work  so  rustled  the  boughs  that  he  did  not 
hear. 

*  Mr.  Winterborne  ! '  she  cried  again,  and  this  time 
he  stopped,  looked  down,  and  replied. 

'  My  silence  just  now  was  not  accident,*  she  said 
in  an  unequal  voice.  *  My  father  says  it  is  better  for 
us  not  to  think  too  much  of  that — engagement,  or 
understanding,  between  us,  that  you  know  of.  I,  too, 
think  that  upon  the  whole  he  is  right.  But  we  are 
friends,  you  know,  Giles,  and  almost  relations.' 

'  Very  well,'  he  answered  in  an  enfeebled  voice 
which  barely  reached  down  the  tree.  *  I  have  nothing 
to  say,  Grace — I  cannot  say  anything  till  I've  thought 
a  while ! ' 

She  added  with  emotion  in  her  tone,  *  For  myself 
I  would  have  married  you — some  day — I  think.  But 
I  give  way,  for  I  am  assured  it  would  be  unwise.' 

He  made  no  reply,  but  sat  back  upon  a  bough, 
placed  his  elbow  in  a  fork,  and  rested  his  head  upon 

II I 


K 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

his  hand.  Thus  he  remained  till  the  fog  and  the 
night  had  completely  inclosed  him  from  her  view. 

Grace  heaved  a  divided  sigh  with  a  tense  pause 
between,  and  moved  onward,  her  heart  feeling  un- 
comfortably big  and  heavy,  and  her  eyes  wet.  Had 
Giles,  instead  of  remaining  still,  immediately  come 
down  from  the  tree  to  her,  would  she  have  continued 
in  that  filial,  acquiescent  frame  of  mind  which  she 
had  announced  to  him  as  final?  If  it  be  true,  as 
women  themselves  have  declared,  that  one  of  their 
sex  is  never  so  much  inclined  to  throw  in  her  lot 
with  a  man  for  good  and  all  as  five  minutes  after  she 
has  told  him  such  a  thing  cannot  be,  the  probabilities 
are  that  something  might  have  been  done  by  the 
appearance  of  Winterborne  on  the  ground  beside 
Grace.  But  he  continued  motionless  and  silent  in 
that  gloomy  Niflheim  or  fogland  which  involved  him, 
and  she  proceeded  on  her  way. 

The  spot  seemed  now  to  be  quite  deserted.  The 
light  from  South's  window  made  rays  on  the  fog,  but 
did  not  reach  the  tree.  A  quarter  of  an  hour  passed, 
and  all  was  blackness  overhead.  Giles  had  not  yet 
come  down. 

Then  the  tree  seemed  to  shiver,  then  to  heave  a 
sigh :  a  movement  was  audible,  and  Winterborne 
dropped  almost  noiselessly  to  the  ground.  He  had 
thought  the  matter  out ;  and  having  returned  the 
ladder  and  bill-hook  to  their  places  pursued  his  way 
homeward.  He  would  not  allow  this  incident  to  affect 
his  outer  conduct  any  more  than  the  danger  to  his 
leaseholds  had  done,  and  went  to  bed  as  usual. 

Two  simultaneous  troubles  do  not  always  make  a 
double  trouble ;  and  thus  it  came  to  pass  that  Giles's 
practical  anxiety  about  his  houses,  which  would  have 
been  enough  to  keep  him  awake  half  the  night  at  any 
other  time,  was  displaced  and  not  reinforced  by  his 
sentimental  trouble  about  Grace  Melbury.  This 
severance  was  in  truth  more  like  a  burial  of  her  than 
a  rupture  with  her,  but  he  did  not  realize  so  much  at 

112 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

present ;  even  when  he  arose  in  the  morning  he  felt 
quite  moody  and  stern ;  as  yet  the  second  note  in  the 
gamut  of  such  emotions,  a  distracting  regret  for  his 
loss,  had  not  made  itself  heard. 

A  load  of  oak  timber  was  to  be  sent  away  before 
dawn  that  morning  to  a  builder  whose  works  were  in 
a  town  many  miles  off.  The  trunks  were  chained 
down  to  a  heavy  timber  carriage  with  enormous  red 
wheels,  and  four  of  the  most  powerful  of  Melbury's 
horses  were  harnessed  in  front  to  draw  them. 

The  horses  wore  their  bells  that  day.  There  were 
sixteen  to  the  team,  carried  on  a  frame  above  each 
animal's  shoulders,  and  tuned  to  scale,  so  as  to  form 
two  octaves,  running  from  the  highest  note  on  the 
right  or  off-side  of  the  leader  to  the  lowest  on  the 
left  or  near-side  of  the  shaft-horse.  Melbury  was 
among  the  last  to  retain  horse-bells  in  that  neighbour- 
hood ;  for  living  at  Little  Hintock,  where  the  lanes 
yet  remained  as  narrow  as  before  the  days  of  turn- 
pike roads,  these  sound-signals  were  still  as  useful  to 
him  and  his  neighbours  as  they  had  ever  been  in 
former  times.  Much  backing  was  saved  in  the  course 
of  a  year  by  the  warning  notes  they  cast  ahead ; 
moreover,  the  tones  of  all  the  teams  in  the  district 
being  known  to  the  carters  of  each,  they  could  tell  a 
long  way  off  on  a  dark  night  whether  they  were  about 
to  encounter  friends  or  strangers. 

The  fog  of  the  previous  evening  still  lingered  so 
heavily  over  the  woods  that  the  morning  could  not 
penetrate  the  trees.  The  load  being  a  ponderous 
one,  the  lane  crooked,  and  the  air  so  thick.  Winter- 
borne  set  out,  as  he  often  did,  to  accompany  the 
team  as  far  as  the  corner,  where  it  would  turn  into  a 
wider  road. 

So  they  rumbled  on,  shaking  the  foundations  of 
the  roadside  cottages  by  the  weight  of  their  progress, 
the  sixteen  bells  chiming  harmoniously  over  all,  till 
they  had  risen  out  of  the  valley,  and  were  descending 
towards  the  more  open  route,  sparks  rising  from  their 

113 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

creaking  skid  as  if  they  would  set  fire  to  the  dead 
leaves  alongside. 

Then  occurred  one  of  the  very  incidents  against 
which  the  bells  were  an  endeavour  to  guard.  Suddenly 
there  beamed  into  their  eyes,  quite  close  to  them,  the 
two  lamps  of  a  carriage,  haloed  by  the  fog.  Its 
approach  had  been  quite  unheard  by  reason  of  their 
own  noise.  The  carriage  was  a  covered  one,  while 
behind  it  could  be  discerned  another  vehicle  laden 
with  luggage. 

Winterborne  went  to  the  head  of  the  team,  and 
heard  the  coachman  telling  the  carter  that  he  must  turn 
back.     The  carter  declared  that  this  was  impossible. 

*  You  can  turn  if  you  unhitch  your  string-horses,* 
said  the  coachman. 

*  It  is  much  easier  for  you  to  turn  than  for  us,' 
said  Winterborne.  *  We've  five  ton  of  timber  on 
these  wheels  if  we've  an  ounce.' 

*  But  I've  another  carriage  with  luggage  at  my 
back.' 

Winterborne  admitted  the  strength  of  the  argu- 
ment. *  But  even  with  that,'  he  said,  *  you  can  back 
better  than  we.  And  you  ought  to,  for  you  could 
hear  our  bells  half  a  mile  off.' 

*  And  you  could  see  our  lights.' 

'  We  couldn't,  because  of  the  fog.* 

*  Well,  our  time's  precious,'  said  the  coachman 
haughtily.  *  You  are  only  going  to  some  trumpery 
little  village  or  other  in  the  neighbourhood,  while  we 
are  going  straight  to  Italy.' 

*  Driving  all  the  way,  I  suppose  ?'  said  Winterborne 
sarcastically. 

The  contention  continued  in  these  terms  till  a 
voice  from  the  interior  of  the  carriage  inquired  what 
was  the  matter.     It  was  a  lady's. 

She  was  informed  of  the  timber  people's  obstinacy ; 
and  then  Giles  could  hear  her  telling  the  footman  to 
direct  the  timber  people  to  turn  their  horses'  heads. 

The  message  was  brought,  and  Winterborne  sent 

114 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

the  bearer  back  to  say  that  he  begged  the  lady's 
pardon,  but  that  he  could  not  do  as  she  requested  ; 
that  though  he  would  not  assert  it  to  be  impossible, 
it  was  impossible  by  comparison  with  the  slight 
difficulty  to  her  party  to  back  their  light  carriages. 
As  fate  would  have  it,  the  incident  with  Grace  Mel- 
bury  on  the  previous  day  made  Giles  less  gentle  than 
he  might  otherwise  have  shown  himself,  his  confidence 
in  the  sex  being  rudely  shaken. 

In  fine,  nothing  could  move  him,  and  the  carriages 
were  compelled  to  back  till  they  reached  one  of  the 
sidings  or  turn-outs  constructed  in  the  bank  for  the 
purpose.  Then  the  team  came  on  ponderously,  and 
the  clanging  of  its  sixteen  bells  as  it  passed  the 
discomfited  carriages  tilted  up  against  the  bank,  lent 
a  particularly  triumphant  tone  to  the  team's  progress 
— a  tone  which,  in  point  of  fact,  did  not  at  all  attach 
to  its  conductor's  feelings. 

Giles  walked  behind  the  timber,  and  just  as  he 
had  got  past  the  yet  stationary  carriages  he  heard 
a  lofty  voice  say,  *Who  is  that  rude  man.?  Not 
Melbury  ?  *  The  sex  of  the  speaker  was  so  prominent 
in  the  tones  that  Winterborne  felt  a  pang  of  regret. 

*  No,  ma'am.  A  younger  man,  in  a  smaller  way 
of  business  in  Little  Hintock.  Winterborne  is  his 
name.' 

Thus  they  parted  company.  *Why,  Mr.  Winter- 
borne,' said  the  waggoner  when  they  were  out  of 
hearing,  *  that  was  she — Mrs.  Charmond  !  Who'd  ha' 
thought  it  ?  What  in  the  world  can  a  woman  that 
does  nothing  be  cock-watching  out  here  at  this  time 
o'  day  for?  Oh,  going  to  Italy — yes,  to  be  sure,  I 
heard  she  was  going  abroad.  She  can't  endure  the 
winter  here.' 

Winterborne  was  vexed  at  the  incident ;  the  more 
so  that  he  knew  Mr.  Melbury,  in  his  adoration  of 
Hintock  House,  would  be  the  first  to  blame  him  if 
it  became  known.  He  accompanied  the  load  to  the 
end  of  the  lane,  and  then  turned  back  with  an  inten- 

115 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

tion  to  call  at  South's  to  learn  the  result  of  the 
experiment  of  the  preceding  evening. 

It  chanced  that  a  few  minutes  before  this  time 
Grace  Melbury,  who  now  rose  soon  enough  to  break- 
fast with  her  father,  in  spite  of  the  unwontedness 
of  the  hour,  had  been  commissioned  by  him  to 
make  the  same  inquiry  at  South's.  Marty  had  been 
standing  at  the  door  when  Miss  Melbury  arrived. 
Almost  before  the  latter  had  spoken  Mrs.  Charmond's 
carriages,  released  from  the  obstruction  up  the  lane, 
came  bowling  along,  and  the  two  girls  turned  to 
regard  the  spectacle. 

Mrs.  Charmond  did  not  see  them,  but  there  was 
sufficient  light  for  them  to  discern  her  outline  between 
the  carriage  windows.  A  noticeable  feature  in  her 
tournure  was  a  magnificent  mass  of  braided  locks. 

'  How  well  she  looks  this  morning !  *  said  Grace, 
forgetting  Mrs.  Charmond's  slight  in  her  generous 
admiration.  *  Her  hair  so  becomes  her  worn  that 
way.     I  have  never  seen  any  more  beautiful ! ' 

*  Nor  have  I,  miss,'  said  Marty  drily,  and  uncon- 
sciously stroking  her  crown. 

Grace  watched  the  carriages  with  lingering  regret 
till  they  were  out  of  sight.  She  then  learnt  of  Marty 
that  South  was  no  better.  Before  she  had  come  away 
Winterborne  approached  the  house,  but  seeing  that 
one  of  the  two  girls  standing  on  the  doorstep  was 
Grace  he  turned  back  again,  and  sought  the  shelter  of 
his  own  home  till  she  should  have  gone  away. 


XIV 

The  encounter  with  the  carriages  forced  Winter- 
home's  mind  back  again  to  the  houses  of  his  which 
would  fall  into  Mrs.  Charmond's  possession  in  the 
event  of  South's  death.  He  marvelled,  as  many  have 
done  since,  what  could  have  induced  his  ancestors  at 
Hintock,  and  other  village  people,  to  exchange  their 
old  copyholds  for  life-leases.  And  he  was  much 
struck  with  his  father's  negligence  in  not  insuring 
South's  life. 

After  breakfast  he  went  upstairs,  turned  over  his 
bed,  and  drew  out  a  flat  canvas  bag  which  lay  between 
the  mattress  and  the  sacking.  In  this  he  kept  his 
leases,  which  had  remained  there  unopened  ever  since 
his  father's  death.  It  was  the  usual  hiding-place 
among  rural  lifeholders  for  such  documents.  Winter- 
borne  sat  down  on  the  bed  and  looked  them  over. 
They  were  ordinary  leases  for  three  lives,  which  a 
member  of  the  South  family,  some  fifty  years  before 
this  time,  had  accepted  of  the  lord  of  the  manor  in  lieu 
of  certain  copyholds  and  other  rights,  in  consideration 
of  having  the  dilapidated  houses  rebuilt  by  the  said 
lord.  They  had  come  into  his  father's  possession 
chiefly  through  his  mother,  who  was  a  South. 

Pinned  to  the  corner  of  one  of  the  indentures  was 
a  letter  which  Winterborne  had  never  seen  before. 
It  bore  a  remote  date,  the  handwriting  being  that  of 
some  solicitor  or  agent,  and  the  signature  the  land- 
holder's. It  was  to  the  effect  that,  at  any  time  before 
the  last  of  the  stated  lives  should  drop,  Mr.  John 

117 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

Winterborne,  or  his  representative,  should  have  the 
privilege  of  adding  his  own  and  his  son's  life  to  the  life 
remaining  on  payment  of  a  merely  nominal  fine ;  the 
concession  being  in  consequence  of  the  elder  Winter- 
borne's  consent  to  demolish  one  of  the  houses  and 
relinquish  its  site,  which  stood  at  an  awkward  corner 
of  the  lane,  and  impeded  the  way. 

The  house  had  been  pulled  down  years  before. 
Why  Giles's  father  had  not  taken  advantage  of  his 
privilege  to  insert  his  own  and  his  son's  lives  it  was 
impossible  to  say.  In  all  likelihood  death  alone  had 
hindered  him  in  the  execution  of  that  project,  the 
elder  Winterborne  having  been  a  man  who  took 
much  pleasure  in  dealing  with  house  property  in  his 
small  way. 

Since  one  of  the  Souths  still  survived  there  was 
not  much  doubt  that  Giles  could  do  what  his  father 
had  left  undone,  as  far  as  his  own  life  was  concerned. 
This  possibility  cheered  him  much  ;  for  by  those  houses 
hung  many  things.  Melbury's  doubt  of  the  young 
man's  fitness  to  be  the  husband  of  Grace  had  been 
based  not  a  little  on  the  precariousness  of  his  holdings 
in  Little  and  Great  Hintock.  He  resolved  to  attend 
to  the  business  at  once,  the  fine  for  renewal  being  a 
sum  that  he  could  easily  muster. 

His  scheme,  however,  could  not  be  carried  out  in 
a  day ;  and  meanwhile  he  would  run  up  to  South's  as 
he  had  intended  to  do,  to  learn  the  result  of  the 
experiment  with  the  tree. 

Marty  met  him  at  the  door.  *Well,  Marty,'  he 
said ;  and  was  surprised  to  read  in  her  face  that  the 
case  was  not  so  hopeful  as  he  had  imagined. 

*  I  am  sorry  for  your  labour,'  she  said.  *  It  is  all 
lost.     He  says  the  tree  seems  taller  than  ever.' 

Winterborne  looked  around  at  it.  Taller  the  tree 
certainly  did  seem,  the  gauntness  of  its  now  naked 
stem  being  more  marked  than  before. 

*  It  quite  terrified  him  when  he  first  saw  what  you 
had  done  to  it  this  morning,'  she  added.     *  He  declares 

ii8 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

it  will  come  down  upon  us  and  cleave  us,  like  "the 
sword  of  the  Lord  and  of  Gideon."  ' 

*  Well ;  can  I  do  anything  else  ?  *  asked  he. 

*  The  doctor  says  the  tree  ought  to  be  cut  down.' 

*  O,  you've  had  the  doctor  ?  ' 

*  I  didn't  send  for  him.  Mrs.  Charmond  before 
she  left  heard  that  father  was  ill,  and  told  him  to 
attend  him  at  her  expense.' 

*  That  was  very  good  of  her.  And  he  says  it  ought 
to  be  cut  down.  We  mustn't  cut  it  down  without  her 
knowledge,  I  suppose.' 

He  went  upstairs.  There  the  old  man  sat,  staring 
at  the  now  gaunt  tree  as  if  his  gaze  were  frozen  on 
to  its  trunk.  Unluckily  the  tree  waved  afresh  by  this 
time,  a  wind  having  sprung  up  and  blown  the  fog 
away ;  and  his  eyes  turned  with  its  wavings. 

They  heard  footsteps — a  man's,  but  of  a  lighter 
weight  than  usual.  '  There  is  Dr.  Fitzpiers  again,* 
she  said,  and  descended.  Presently  his  tread  was 
heard  on  the  naked  stairs. 

Mr.  Fitzpiers  entered  the  sick  chamber  as  a 
doctor  is  wont  to  do  on  such  occasions,  and  pre- 
eminently when  the  room  is  that  of  the  humble 
cottager ;  looking  round  towards  the  patient  with 
a  preoccupied  gaze  which  so  plainly  reveals  that  he 
has  well-nigh  forgotten  all  about  the  case  and  the 
circumstances  since  he  dismissed  them  from  his  mind 
at  his  last  exit  from  the  same  apartment.  He  nodded 
to  Winterborne,  who  had  not  seen  him  since  his  peep 
over  the  hedge  at  Grace,  recalled  the  case  to  his 
thoughts,  and  went  leisurely  on  to  where  South  sat. 

Edred  Fitzpiers  was,  on  the  whole,  a  finely  formed, 
handsome  man.  His  eyes  were  dark  and  impressive, 
and  beamed  with  the  light  either  of  energy  or  of 
susceptivity — it  was  difficult  to  say  which  ;  it  might 
have  been  chiefly  the  latter.  That  quick,  glittering, 
empirical  eye,  sharp  for  the  surface  of  things  if  for 
nothing  beneath,  he  had  not.  But  whether  his 
apparent  depth  of  vision  were  real,  or  only  an  artistic 

119 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

accident  of  his  corporeal  moulding,  nothing  but  his 
deeds  could  reveal. 

His  face  was  rather  soft  than  stern,  charming  than 
grand,  pale  than  flushed ;  his  nose — if  a  sketch  of 
his  features  be  de  rigueur  for  a  person  of  his  pre- 
tensions— was  artistically  beautiful  enough  to  have 
been  worth  modelling  by  any  sculptor  not  over  busy, 
and  was  hence  devoid  of  those  knotty  irregularities 
which  often  mean  power;  while  the  classical  curve 
of  his  mouth  was  not  without  a  looseness  in  its  close. 
Either  from  his  readily  appreciative  mien,  or  his  re- 
flective manner,  his  presence  bespoke  the  philosopher 
rather  than  the  dandy — an  effect  which  was  helped  by 
the  absence  of  trinkets  or  other  trivialities  from  his 
attire,  though  this  was  more  finished  and  up  to  date 
than  is  usually  the  case  among  rural  practitioners. 

Strict  people  of  the  highly  respectable  class, 
knowing  a  little  about  him  by  report,  said  that  he 
seemed  likely  to  err  rather  in  the  possession  of  too 
many  ideas  than  too  few  ;  to  be  a  dreamy  'ist  of  some 
sort,  or  too  deeply  steeped  in  some  false  kind  of 
'ism.  However  this  may  be,  it  will  be  seen  that  he 
was  undoubtedly  a  somewhat  rare  kind  of  gentleman 
and  doctor  to  have  descended,  as  from  the  clouds, 
upon  Little  Hintock. 

*  This  is  an  extraordinary  case,*  he  said  at  last 
to  Winterborne,  after  examining  South  by  conversa- 
tion, look,  and  touch,  and  learning  that  the  craze 
about  the  elm  was  stronger  than  ever.  *  Come  down- 
stairs, and  I'll  tell  you  what  I  think.' 

They  accordingly  descended,  and  the  doctor  con- 
tinued, '  The  tree  must  be  cut  down ;  or  I  won't 
answer  for  his  life.* 

*  'Tis  Mrs.  Charmond's  tree ;  and  I  suppose  we 
must  get  permission  t '  said  Giles. 

*  O,  never  mind  whose  tree  it  is — what's  a  tree 
beside  a  life  !  Cut  it  down.  I  have  not  the  honour 
of  knowing  Mrs.  Charmond  as  yet;  but  I  am  dis- 
posed to  risk  that  much  with  her.* 

120 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

*  'Tis  timber,'  rejoined  Giles.  '  They  never  fell  a 
stick  about  here  without  its  being  marked  first,  either 
by  her  or  the  agent.' 

'  Then  we'll  inaugurate  a  new  era  forthwith.  How 
long  has  he  complained  of  the  tree  ?  '  asked  the  doctor 
of  Marty. 

*  Weeks  and  weeks,  sir.  The  shape  of  it  seems 
to  haunt  him  like  an  evil  spirit.  He  says  that  it 
is  exactly  his  own  age,  that  it  has  got  human  sense, 
and  sprouted  up  when  he  was  born  on  purpose  to 
rule  him,  and  keep  him  as  its  slave.  Others  have 
been  like  it  afore  in  Hintock.' 

They  could  hear  South's  voice  upstairs.  *  O,  he's 
rocking  this  way ;  he  must  come !  And  then  my 
poor  life,  that's  worth  houses  upon  houses,  will  be 
squashed  out  o'  me.     O  !  O  ! ' 

*  That's  how  he  goes  on,'  she  added.  *  And  he'll 
never  look  anywhere  else  but  out  of  the  window,  and 
scarcely  have  the  curtains  drawn.' 

*  Down  with  it,  then,  and  hang  Mrs.  Charmond,' 
said  Mr.  Fitzpiers.  *  The  best  plan  will  be  to  wait 
till  the  evening,  when  it  is  dark,  or  early  in  the 
morning  before  he  is  awake,  so  that  he  doesn't  see 
it  fall,  for  that  would  terrify  him  worse  than  ever. 
Keep  the  blind  down  till  I  come,  and  then  I'll  assure 
him,  and  show  him  that  his  trouble  is  over.' 

The  doctor  departed,  and  they  waited  till  the 
evening.  When  it  was  dusk,  and  the  curtains  drawn, 
Winterborne  directed  a  couple  of  woodmen  to  bring 
a  cross-cut  saw ;  and  the  tall  threatening  tree  was 
soon  nearly  off  at  its  base.  Next  morning,  before 
South  was  awake,  they  went  and  lowered  it  cautiously, 
in  a  direction  away  from  the  cottage.  It  was  a 
business  difficult  to  do  quite  silently;  but  it  was 
done  at  last,  and  the  elm  of  the  same  birth-year  as 
the  woodman's  lay  stretched  upon  the  ground.  The 
weakest  idler  that  passed  could  now  set  foot  on  marks 
formerly  made  in  the  upper  forks  by  the  shoes  of 
adventurous   climbers   only ;   once  inaccessible  nests 

121 


(1 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

could  be  examined  microscopically ;  and  on  swaying 
extremities  where  birds  alone  had  perched  the  by- 
standers sat  down. 

As  soon  as  it  was  broad  daylight  the  doctor  came, 
and  Winterborne  entered  the  house  with  him.  Marty 
said  that  her  father  was  wrapped  up  and  ready,  as 
usual,  to  be  put  into  his  chair.  They  ascended  the 
stairs,  and  soon  seated  him.  He  began  at  once  to 
complain  of  the  tree,  and  the  danger  to  his  life  and 
Wintcrborne's  house  property  in  consequence. 

The  doctor  signalled  to  Giles,  who  went  and  drew 
back  the  dimity  curtains.  *  It  is  gone,  see,'  said  Mr. 
Fitzpiers. 

As  soon  as  the  old  man  saw  the  vacant  patch 
of  sky  in  place  of  the  branched  column  so  familiar 
to  his  gaze,  he  sprang  up,  speechless ;  his  eyes 
rose  from  their  hollows  till  the  whites  showed  all 
round,  he  fell  back,  and  a  bluish  whiteness  overspread 
him. 

Greatly  alarmed  they  put  him  on  the  bed.  As 
soon  as  he  came  a  little  out  of  his  fit  he  gasped, 
*  O,  it  is  gone  ! — where — where  ?  * 

His  whole  system  seemed  paralyzed  by  amazement. 
They  were  thunderstruck  at  the  result  of  the  experi- 
ment, and  did  all  they  could.  Nothing  seemed  to 
avail.  Giles  and  Fitzpiers  went  and  came,  but  use- 
lessly. He  lingered  through  the  day,  and  died  that 
evening  as  the  sun  went  down. 

*  Damned  if  my  remedy  hasn't  killed  him ! '  mur- 
mured the  doctor. 

Dismissing  the  subject  he  went  downstairs.  When 
going  out  of  the  house  he  turned  suddenly  to  Giles 
and  said,  *  Who  was  that  young  lady  we  looked  at 
over  the  hedge  the  other  day  ?  ' 

Giles  shook  his  head,  as  if  he  did  not  remember. 


XV 

When  Melbury  heard  what  had  happened  he  seemed 
much  moved,  and  walked  thoughtfully  about  the 
premises.  On  South's  own  account  he  was  genuinely 
sorry  ;  and  on  Winterborne's  he  was  the  more  grieved 
in  that  this  catastrophe  had  so  closely  followed  the 
somewhat  harsh  suggestion  to  Giles  to  draw  off  from 
his  daughter. 

He  was  quite  angry  with  circumstances  for  so 
heedlessly  inflicting  on  Giles  a  second  trouble  when 
the  needful  one  inflicted  by  himself  was  all  that  the 
proper  order  of  events  demanded.  *  I  told  Giles's 
father  when  he  came  into  those  houses  not  to  spend 
too  much  money  on  lifehold  property  held  neither  for 
his  own  life  nor  his  son's/  he  exclaimed ;  *  but  he 
wouldn't  listen  to  me.  And  now  Giles  has  to  suffer 
for  it.' 

*  Poor  Giles ! '  murmured  Grace. 

*  Now,  Grace,  between  us  two,  it  is  very,  very 
remarkable.  It  is  almost  as  if  I  had  foreseen  this  ; 
and  I  am  thankful  for  your  escape,  though  I  am 
sincerely  sorry  for  Giles.  Had  we  not  dismissed 
him  already  we  could  hardly  have  found  it  in  our 
hearts  to  dismiss  him  now.  So  I  say,  be  thankful. 
I'll  do  all  I  can  for  him  as  a  friend;  but  as  a  pre- 
tender to  the  position  of  my  son-in-law,  that  can 
never  be  thought  of  more.' 

And  yet  at  that  very  moment  the  impracticability 
to  which  poor  Winterborne's  suit  had  been  reduced 
was  touching   Grace's  heart  to  a  warmer  sentiment 

123 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

on  his  behalf  than  she  had  felt  for  years  concerning 
him. 

He,  meanwhile,  was  sitting  down  alone  in  the 
familiar  house  which  had  ceased  to  be  his;  taking 
a  calm  if  somewhat  dismal  survey  of  affairs.  The 
pendulum  of  the  clock  bumped  every  now  and  then 
against  one  side  of  the  case  in  which  it  swung,  as 
the  muffled  drum  to  his  worldly  march.  Looking 
out  of  the  window  he  could  perceive  that  a  paralysis 
had  come  over  Creedle  s  occupation  of  manuring  the 
garden,  owing,  obviously,  to  a  conviction  that  they 
might  not  be  living  there  long  enough  to  profit  by 
next  season's  crop. 

He  looked  at  the  leases  again  and  the  letter 
attached.  There  was  no  doubt  that  he  had  lost  his 
houses  and  was  left  practically  penniless  by  an  accident 
which  might  easily  have  been  circumvented  if  he  had 
known  the  true  conditions  of  his  holding.  The  time 
for  performance  had  now  lapsed  in  strict  law  ;  but  why 
should  not  the  intention  be  considered  by  the  land- 
holder when  she  became  aware  of  the  circumstances, 
and  his  moral  right  to  retain  the  holdings  for  the  term 
of  his  life  be  conceded  } 

His  heart  sank  within  him  when  he  perceived 
that,  despite  all  the  legal  reciprocities  and  safeguards 
prepared  and  written,  the  upshot  of  the  matter  was 
that  it  depended  upon  the  mere  caprice  of  the  woman 
he  had  met  the  day  before,  in  such  an  unfortunate  way, 
whether  he  was  to  possess  his  houses  for  life  or  no. 

While  he  was  sitting  and  thinking  a  step  came  to 
the  door,  and  Melbury  appeared,  looking  very  sorry 
for  his  position.  Winterborne  welcomed  him  by  a 
word  and  a  nod,  and  went  on  with  his  examination  of 
the  parchments.     His  visitor  sat  down. 

'  Giles,'  he  said,  '  this  is  very  awkward,  and  I  am 
sorry  for  it.     What  are  you  going  to  do  } ' 

Giles  informed  him  of  the  real  state  of  affairs,  and 
how  barely  he  had  missed  availing  himself  of  his 
chance  of  renewal. 

124 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

*  What  a  misfortune  !  Why  was  this  neglected  ? 
Well,  the  best  thing  you  can  do  is  to  write  and 
tell  her  all  about  it,  and  throw  yourself  upon  her 
generosity.' 

*  I  would  rather  not,'  murmured  Giles. 

*  But  you  must,'  said  Melbury.  *  Much  depends 
on  it' 

In  short,  he  argued  so  cogently  that  Giles  allowed 
himself  to  be  persuaded,  firmly  believing  it  to  be  a 
last  blow  for  Grace.  The  letter  to  Mrs.  Charmond 
was  written  and  sent  to  Hintock  House,  whence,  as 
he  knew,  it  would  at  once  be  forwarded  to  her. 

Melbury,  feeling  that  he  had  done  so  good  an 
action  in  coming  as  to  extenuate  his  previous  arbitrary 
conduct,  went  home ;  and  Giles  was  left  alone  to 
the  suspense  of  waiting  for  a  reply  from  the  divinity 
who  shaped  the  ends  of  the  Hintock  population.  By 
this  time  all  the  villagers  knew  of  the  circumstances, 
and  being  well-nigh  like  one  family  a  keen  interest 
was  the  result  all  round. 

Everybody  thought  of  Giles ;  nobody  thought  of 
Marty.  Had  any  of  them  looked  in  upon  her  during 
those  moonlight  nights  which  preceded  the  burial  of 
her  father  they  would  have  seen  the  girl  absolutely 
alone  in  the  house  with  the  dead  man.  Her  own 
chamber  being  nearest  the  stair-top,  the  coffin  had 
been  placed  there  for  convenience ;  and  at  a  certain 
hour  of  the  night,  when  the  moon  arrived  opposite 
the  window,  its  beams  streamed  across  the  still  profile 
of  South,  sublimed  by  the  august  presence  of  death, 
and  onward  a  few  feet  further  upon  the  face  of  his 
daughter,  lying  in  her  little  bed  in  the  silence  of  a 
repose  almost  as  dignified  as  that  of  her  companion — 
the  repose  of  a  guileless  soul  that  had  nothing  more 
left  on  earth  to  lose,  except  a  life  which  she  did  not 
over-value. 

South  was  buried,  and  a  week  passed,  and  Winter- 
borne  watched  for  a  reply  from  Mrs.  Charmond. 
Melbury   was   very   sanguine   as   to   its   tenor;    but 

125 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

Winterborne  had  not  told  him  of  the  encounter 
with  her  carriage,  when,  if  ever  he  had  heard  an 
affronted  tone  on  a  woman's  lips,  he  had  heard  it 
on  hers. 

The  postman's  time  for  passing  was  just  after 
Melbury's  men  had  assembled  in  the  spar-house ;  and 
Winterborne,  who  when  not  busy  on  his  own  account 
would  lend  assistance  there,  used  to  go  out  into  the 
lane  every  morning  and  meet  the  postman  at  the  end 
of  one  of  the  green  rides  through  the  hazel-copse,  in 
the  straight  stretch  of  which  his  laden  figure  could  be 
seen  a  long  way  off.  Grace  also  was  very  anxious ; 
more  anxious  than  her  father,  more  perhaps  than 
Winterborne  himself.  This  anxiety  led  her  into  the 
spar-house  on  some  pretext  or  other  almost  every 
morning  whilst  they  were  awaiting  the  answer. 

Eleven  times  had  Winterborne  gone  to  that  corner 
of  the  ride,  and  looked  up  its  long  straight  slope 
through  the  wet  greys  of  winter  dawn.  But  though 
the  postman's  bowed  figure  loomed  in  view  pretty 
regularly,  he  brought  nothing  for  Giles.  On  the 
twelfth  day  the  man  of  missives,  while  yet  in  the 
extreme  distance,  held  up  his  hand,  and  Winterborne 
saw  a  letter  in  it.  He  took  it  into  the  spar-house 
before  he  broke  the  seal,  and  those  who  were  there 
gathered  round  him  while  he  read,  Grace  looking  in 
at  the  door. 

The  letter  was  not  from  Mrs.  Charmond  herself, 
but  from  her  agent  at  Sherton.  Winterborne  glanced 
it  over  and  looked  up. 

'  It's  all  over,'  he  said. 

*  Ah  ! '  said  they  all  together. 

*  Her  lawyer  is  instructed  to  say  that  Mrs.  Char- 
mond sees  no  reason  for  disturbing  the  natural  course 
of  things,  particularly  as  she  contemplates  pulling  the 
houses  down,'  he  said  quietly. 

*  Only  think  of  that ! '  said  several.  '  Pulling  down 
is  always  the  game.' 

Winterborne  had  turned  away,  and  said  vehemently 

126 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

to  himself,  'Then  let  her  pull  'em  down,  and  be 
damned  to  her  ! ' 

Creedle  looked  at  him  with  a  face  of  seven  sorrows, 
saying,  *  Ah  'twas  that  sperrit  that  lost  'em  for  ye, 
maister ! ' 

Winterborne  subdued  his  feelings,  and  from  that 
hour,  whatever  they  were,  kept  them  entirely  to  him- 
self. Yet  assuming  the  value  of  taciturnity  to  a  man 
among  strangers,  it  is  apt  to  express  more  than  talk- 
ativeness when  he  dwells  among  friends.  The  country- 
man who  is  obliged  to  judge  the  time  of  day  from 
changes  in  external  nature  sees  a  thousand  successive 
tints  and  traits  in  the  landscape  which  are  never  dis- 
cerned by  him  who  hears  the  regular  chime  of  a 
clock,  because  they  are  never  in  request.  In  like 
manner  do  we  use  our  eyes  on  our  taciturn  comrade. 
The  infinitesimal  movement  of  muscle,  curve,  hair, 
and  wrinkle,  which  when  accompanied  by  a  voice 
goes  unregarded,  is  watched  and  translated  in  the 
lack  of  it,  till  virtually  the  whole  surrounding  circle 
of  familiars  is  charged  with  the  reserved  one's  moods 
and  meanings. 

So  with  Winterborne  and  his  neighbours  after 
his  stroke  of  ill-luck.  He  held  his  tongue ;  and 
they  observed  him,  and  knew  that  he  was  dis- 
composed. 

Encountering  Melbury  one  day  his  manner  was 
that  of  a  man  who  abandoned  all  claims.  *  I  am  glad 
to  meet  'ee,  Mr.  Melbury,'  he  said  in  a  low  voice 
whose  quality  he  endeavoured  to  make  as  practical 
as  possible.  *  I  am  afraid  I  shall  not  after  this  be 
able  to  keep  that  mare  I  bought  for  the  use  of — a 
possible  wife,  and  as  I  don't  care  to  sell  her,  I 
should  like,  if  you  don't  object,  to  give  her  to  Miss 
Melbury.  The  horse  is  very  quiet,  and  woiild  be 
quite  safe  for  her.' 

Mr.  Melbury  was  rather  affected  at  this.  *  You 
sha'n't  hurt  your  pocket  like  that  on  our  account, 
Giles.     Grace  shall  have  the  horse,  but  I'll  pay  you 

127 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

what  you  gave  for  her,  and  any  expense  you  may 
have  been  put  to  for  her  keep.' 

He  would  not  hear  of  any  other  terms,  and  thus 
it  was  arranged.  They  were  now  opposite  Melbury's 
house,  and  the  timber-merchant  pressed  Winterbornc 
to  enter,  Grace  being  out  of  the  way. 

*  Pull  round  the  settle,  Giles,'  said  the  timber- 
merchant  as  soon  as  they  were  within.  *  I  should 
like  to  have  a  serious  talk  with  you.' 

Thereupon  he  put  the  case  to  Winterborne  frankly, 
and  in  quite  a  friendly  way.  He  declared  that  he 
did  not  like  to  be  hard  on  a  man  when  he  was  in 
difficulty ;  but  he  really  did  not  see  how  Winterborne 
could  marry  his  daughter  now  without  even  a  house 
to  take  her  to. 

Giles  quite  acquiesced  in  the  awkwardness  of  his 
situation,  but  from  a  momentary  gasp  of  hope — a 
feeling  that  he  would  like  to  know  Grace's  mind  from 
her  own  lips — he  did  not  speak  out  positively  even 
then.  He  accordingly  departed  somewhat  abruptly, 
and  went  home  to  consider  whether  he  would  seek 
to  bring  about  a  meeting  with  her. 

In  the  evening  while  he  sat  pondering  he  fancied 
that  he  heard  a  scraping  on  the  wall  outside  his  house. 
The  boughs  of  a  monthly  rose  which  grew  there 
made  such  a  noise  sometimes,  but  as  no  wind  was 
stirring  he  knew  that  it  could  not  be  the  rose-tree. 
He  took  up  the  candle  and  went  out.  Nobody  was 
near.  As  he  turned  the  light  flickered  on  the 
whitewashed  rough-cast  of  the  front,  and  he  saw 
words  written  thereon  in  charcoal,  which  he  read  as 
follows : — 

*  O  Giles,  you've  lost  your  dwelling-place, 
i  And  therefore,  Giles,  you'll  lose  your  Grace.' 

Giles  went  indoors.  He  had  his  suspicions  as  to 
the  scrawler  of  those  lines,  but  he  could  not  be  sure. 
What  filled  his  heart  far  more  than  curiosity  about 
their  authorship  was  a  terrible  belief  that  they  were 

128 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

turning  out  to  be  true,  try  to  regain  Grace  as  he 
might.  They  decided  the  question  for  him.  He  sat 
down  and  wrote  a  formal  note  to  Melbury,  stating 
that  he  shared  to  the  full  Melbury 's  view  of  his  own 
and  his  daughter's  promise  made  some  years  before ; 
he  wished  that  it  should  be  considered  as  cancelled, 
and  they  themselves  quite  released  from  any  obligation 
on  account  of  it. 

Having  fastened  up  this  their  plenary  absolution 
he  determined  to  get  it  out  of  his  hands  and  have 
done  with  it ;  to  which  end  he  went  off  to  Melbury's 
at  once.  It  was  now  so  late  that  the  family  had  all 
retired ;  he  crept  up  to  the  house,  thrust  the  note 
under  the  door,  and  stole  away  as  silently  as  he  had 
come. 

Melbury  himself  was  the  first  to  rise  the  next 
morning,  and  when  he  had  read  the  letter  his  relief 
was  great,  for  he  knew  that  Giles  could  have  made 
matters  unpleasant  if  he  had  chosen  to  work  upon 
Grace.  *  Very  honourable  of  Giles,  very  honourable/ 
he  kept  saying  to  himself.  *  I  shall  not  forget  him. 
Now  to  keep  her  up  to  her  own  true  level.' 

It  happened  that  Grace  went  out  for  an  early 
ramble  that  morning,  and  to  go  in  her  customary 
direction  she  could  not  avoid  passing  Winterborne's 
house.  The  morning  sun  was  shining  flat  upon  its 
white  surface,  and  the  words,  which  still  remained, 
were  immediately  visible  to  her.  She  read  them. 
Her  face  flushed  to  crimson.  She  could  see  Giles 
and  Creedle  talking  together  at  the  back ;  the  charred 
spar-gad  with  which  the  lines  had  been  written  lay  on 
the  ground  beneath  the  wall.  Feeling  pretty  sure 
that  Winterborne  would  observe  her  action  she  quickly 
went  up  to  the  wall,  rubbed  out  *  lose '  and  inserted 
*  keep  *  in  its  stead.  Then  she  made  the  best  of  her 
way  home  without  looking  behind  her.  Giles  could 
draw  an  inference  now  if  he  chose. 

There  could  not  be  the  least  doubt  that  gentle 
Grace   was   warming   to   more   sympathy   with,   and 

129 


\ 

\ 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

interest  in,  Winterborne  than  ever  she  had  done 
while  he  was  her  promised  lover ;  that  since  his 
misfortune  those  social  shortcomings  of  his,  which 
contrasted  so  awkwardly  with  her  later  experiences 
of  life,  had  become  obscured  by  the  generous  revival 
of  an  old  romantic  attachment  to  him.  Though 
mentally  trained  and  tilled  into  foreignness  of  view, 
as  compared  with  her  youthful  time,  Grace  was  not 
an  ambitious  girl,  and  might,  if  left  to  herself,  have 
declined  upon  Winterborne  without  much  discontent. 
Her  feelings  just  now  were  so  far  from  latent  that 
the  writing  on  the  wall  had  quickened  her  to  an 
unusual  rashness. 

Having  returned  from  her  walk  she  sat  at  break- 
fast silently.  When  her  stepmother  had  left  the 
room  she  said  to  her  father,  *  I  have  made  up  my 
mind  that  I  should  like  my  engagement  to  Giles  to 
continue.' 

Melbury  looked  much  surprised. 

'  Nonsense,'  he  said  sharply.  *  You  don't  know 
what  you  are  talking  about.     Look  here.' 

He  handed  across  to  her  the  letter  received  from 
Giles. 

She  read  it  and  said  no  more.  Could  he  have 
seen  her  write  on  the  wall  ?  She  did  not  know. 
Fate,  it  seemed,  would  have  it  this  way,  and  there 
was  nothing  to  do  but  to  acquiesce. 

It  was  a  few  hours  after  this  that  W^interborne, 
who,  curiously  enough,  had  no^  perceived  Grace 
writing,  was  clearing  away  the  tree  from  the  front  of 
South's  late  dwelling.  He  saw  Marty  standing  in 
her  doorway,  a  slim  figure  in  meagre  black,  almost 
without  womanly  contours  as  yet.  He  went  up  to 
her  and  said : 

*  Marty,  why  did  you  write  that  on  my  wall  last 
night  ?     It  was  you,  you  know. 

'  Because  it  was  the  truth.' 

*  Having  prophesied  one  thing,  why  did  you  alter 
it  to  another  ?     Your  predictions  can't  be  worth  much.* 

130 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

*  I  have  not  altered  it,' 

*  But  you  have.' 
•No.' 

*  It  is  altered.     Go  and  see.* 

f  She  went,   and   read   that  in  spite  of  losing  his 

dwelling-place  he  would  keep  his  Grace.     Marty  came 
back  surprised. 

*  Well,'  she  said.  *  Who  can  have  made  such 
nonsense  of  it  ? ' 

*  Who  indeed  .•* '  said  he. 

*  I  have  rubbed  it  all  out,  as  the  point  ot  it  is 
quite  gone.' 

*  You'd  no  business  to  rub  it  out ;  I  meant  to  let 
it  stay  a  little  longer.' 

*  Some  idle  boy  altered  it,  no  doubt,*  she  mur- 
mured. 

As  this  seemed  very  probable  Winterborne  said 
no  more,  and  dismissed  the  matter  from  his  mind. 

From  this  day  of  his  life  onward  for  a  considerable 
time  Winterborne,  though  not  absolutely  out  of  his 
house  as  yet,  retired  into  the  background  of  human 
life  and  action  thereabout — a  feat  not  particularly 
difficult  of  performance  anywhere  when  the  doer  has 
the  assistance  of  a  lost  prestige.  Grace,  thinking 
that  Winterborne  saw  her  write,  made  no  further 
sign,  and  the  frail  barque  of  fidelity  that  she  had  thus 
timidly  launched  was  stranded  and  lost. 


XVI 

Dr.  Fitzpiers  lived  on  the  slope  of  the  hill,  in  a 
house  of  much  less  pretension  both  as  to  architecture 
and  as  to  magnitude  than  the  timber- merchant's. 
The  latter  had  without  doubt  been  once  the  manorial 
residence  appertaining  to  the  snug  and  modest 
domain  of  Little  Hintock,  of  which  the  boundaries 
were  now  lost  by  its  absorption  into  the  adjoining 
estate  of  Mrs.  Charmond.  Though  the  Melburys 
themselves  were  unaware  of  the  fact  there  was  every 
reason  to  believe — at  least  so  the  parson  said — that 
the  owners  of  that  little  manor  had  been  Melbury's 
own  ancestors,  the  family  name  occurring  in  numerous 
documents  relating  to  transfers  of  land  about  the  time 
of  the  civil  wars. 

Mr.  Fitzpiers's  dwelling,  on  the  contrary,  was 
small,  box-like,  and  comparatively  modern.  It  had 
been  occupied,  and  was  in  part  occupied  still,  by  a 
retired  farmer  and  his  wife,  who,  on  the  surgeon's 
arrival  in  quest  of  a  home,  had  accommodated  him  by 
receding  from  their  front  rooms  into  the  kitchen 
quarter,  whence  they  administered  to  his  wants,  and 
emerged  at  regular  intervals  to  receive  from  him  a 
not  unwelcome  addition  to  their  income. 

The  cottage  and  its  garden  were  so  regular  in 
their  plan  that  they  might  have  been  laid  out  by  a 
Dutch  designer  of  the  time  of  William  and  Mary. 
In  a  low,  dense  hedge  was  a  door,  over  which  the 
hedge  formed  an  arch,  and  from  the  inside  of  the 
door  a  straight  path,  bordered  with  clipped  box,  ran 

132 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

up  the  slope  of  the  garden  to  the  porch,  which  was 
exactly  in  the  middle  of  the  house-front,  with  two 
windows  on  each  side.  Right  and  left  of  the  path 
were  first  a  bed  of  gooseberry-bushes ;  next  of 
currant ;  next  of  raspberry  ;  next  of  strawberry  ;  next 
of  old-fashioned  flowers ;  at  the  corners  opposite  the 
porch  being  spheres  of  box  resembling  a  pair  of 
school  globes.  Over  the  roof  of  the  house  could  be 
seen  the  orchard  on  yet  higher  ground,  and  behind 
the  orchard  the  forest-trees,  reaching  up  to  the  crest 
of  the  hill.  . 

Opposite  the  garden  door  into  the  lane,  and 
visible  from  the  parlour  window,  was  a  swing-gate 
leading  to  a  field,  across  which  there  ran  a  footpath. 
The  swing-gate  had  just  been  repainted,  and  on  one 
fine  afternoon,  before  the  paint  was  dry,  and  while 
gnats  stuck  dying  thereon,  the  surgeon  was  standing 
in  his  room  abstractedly  looking  out  at  an  occasional 
pedestrian  who  passed  along  that  route.  Being  of  a 
philosophical  stamp  he  perceived  that  the  character  of 
each  of  these  travellers  exhibited  itself  in  a  somewhat 
amusing  manner  by  his  or  her  method  of  handling 
the  gate. 

In  the  men  there  was  not  much  variety :  they 
gave  the  gate  a  kick  and  passed  through.  The 
women  were  more  contrasting.  To  them  the  sticky 
woodwork  was  a  barricade,  a  disgust,  a  menace,  a 
treachery,  as  the  case  might  be. 

The  first  that  he  noticed  was  a  bouncing  young 
woman  with  her  skirts  tucked  up  and  her  hair  wild. 
Fitzpiers  knew  her  as  Suke  Damson.  She  grasped 
the  gate  without  looking,  giving  it  a  supplementary 
push  with  her  shoulder,  when  the  white  imprint  drew 
from  her  an  exclamation  in  language  not  too  refined. 
She  went  to  the  green  bank  and  sat  down  and  rubbed 
herself  in  the  grass,  cursing  the  while. 

*  Ha  !  ha  1  ha ! '  laughed  the  docter. 

The  next  was  a  girl  with  her  hair  cropped  short, 
in  whom  the  surgeon  recognized  the  daughter  of  his 

133 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

late  patient,  the  woodman  South.  Moreover,  a  black 
gown  that  she  wore  by  way  of  mourning  unpleasantly 
reminded  him  that  he  had  ordered  a  tree-felling 
which  had  caused  her  parent's  death.  She  walked  in 
thought,  and  not  recklessly;  but  her  pre-occupation 
led  her  to  grasp  without  suspicion  the  bar  of  the  gate, 
and  touch  it  with  her  arm.  Fitzpiers  felt  sorry  that 
she  should  have  soiled  that  new  black  frock,  poor  as 
it  was,  for  it  was  probably  her  only  one.  She  looked 
at  her  hand  and  arm,  seemed  but  little  surprised, 
wiped  off  the  disfigurement  with  an  unmoved  face 
and  as  if  without  abandoning  her  original  thoughts. 
Thus  she  went  on  her  way. 

Then  there  came  over  the  green  quite  a  different 
sort  of  personage.  She  walked  as  delicately  as  if  she 
had  been  bred  in  town,  and  as  firmly  as  if  she  had 
been  bred  in  the  country ;  she  seemed  one  who 
dimly  knew  her  appearance  to  be  attractive,  but  who 
retained  some  of  the  charm  of  ignorance  by  forgetting 
self  in  a  general  pensiveness.    She  approached  the  gate. 

To  let  such  a  creature  touch  it  even  with  the  tip 
of  her  glove  was  to  Fitzpiers  almost  like  letting  her 
proceed  to  tragical  self-destruction.  He  jumped  up 
and  looked  for  his  hat,  but  was  unable  to  find  the 
right  one ;  glancing  again  out  of  the  window  he  saw 
that  his  assistance  was  unnecessary.  Having  come 
up  she  looked  at  the  gate,  picked  up  a  little  stick, 
and  using  it  as  a  bayonet  pushed  open  the  obstacle 
without  touching  it  at  all. 

He  steadily  watched  her  out  of  sight,  recognizing 
her  as  the  very  young  lady  whom  he  had  seen  once 
before  and  been  unable  to  identify.  Whose  could 
that  emotional  face  be  ?  All  the  others  he  had  seen 
in  Hintock  as  yet  oppressed  him  with  their  crude 
rusticity ;  the  contrast  offered  by  this  suggested  that 
she  hailed  from  elsewhere. 

Precisely  these  thoughts  had  occurred  to  him  at 
the  first  time  of  seeing  her ;  but  he  now  went  a  little 
further  with  them,  and  considered  that  as  there  had 

134 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

been  no  carriage  lately  in  that  spot  she  could  not 
have  come  a  very  long  distance.  She  must  be  some- 
body staying  at  Hintock  House  —  probably  Mrs. 
Charmond,  of  whom  he  had  heard  so  much ;  and 
this  probability  was  sufficient  to  set  a  mild  radiance 
in  the  surgeon's  somewhat  dull  sky. 

Fitzpiers  sat  down  to  the  book  he  had  been 
perusing.  It  happened  to  be  that  of  a  German 
metaphysician,  for  the  doctor  was  not  a  practical 
man,  except  by  fits,  and  much  preferred  the  ideal 
world  to  the  real,  and  the  discovery  of  principles 
to  their  application.  The  young  lady  remained  in 
his  thoughts.  He  might  have  followed  her ;  but 
he  was  not  constitutionally  active,  and  preferred  a 
conjectural  pursuit.  However,  when  he  went  out 
for  a  ramble  just  before  dusk  he  insensibly  took  the 
direction  of  Hintock  House,  which  was  the  way 
Grace  had  been  walking,  her  mind  having  run  on 
Mrs.  Charmond  that  day ;  though  Grace  had  returned 
long  since  by  another  route. 

Fitzpiers  reached  the  edge  of  the  glen  overlooking 
the  manor-house.  The  shutters  were  shut,  and  only 
one  chimney  smoked.  The  mere  aspect  of  the  place 
was  enough  to  inform  him  that  Mrs.  Charmond  had 
gone  away,  and  that  nobody  else  was  staying  there. 
Fitzpiers  felt  a  vague  disappointment  that  the  young 
lady  was  not  Mrs.  Charmond ;  and  without  pausing 
longer  to  gaze  at  a  carcase  from  which  the  spirit  had 
flown  he  bent  his  steps  homeward. 

Later  in  the  evening  Fitzpiers  was  summoned  to 
visit  a  cottage-patient  about  five  miles  distant.  Like 
the  majority  of  young  practitioners  in  his  vicinity  he 
was  far  from  having  assumed  the  dignity  of  being 
driven  his  rounds  by  a  servant  in  a  brougham  that 
flashed  the  sunlight  lik^  a  mirror ;  his  way  of  getting 
about  was  by  means  of  a  gig  which  he  drove  himself, 
hitching  the  rein  of  the  horse  to  the  gate-post, 
shutter-hook,  or  garden-paling  of  the  domicile  under 
visitation,  or  giving  pennies  to  little  boys  to  hold  the 

135 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

animal  during  his  stay — pennies  which  were  well 
earned  when  the  cases  to  be  attended  were  of  a 
certain  cheerful  kind  that  wore  out  the  patience  of 
the  little  boys. 

On  this  account  of  travelling  alone  the  night- 
journeys  which  Fitzpiers  had  frequently  to  take  were 
dismal  enough,  an  apparent  perversity  in  nature 
ruling  that  whenever  there  was  to  be  a  birth  in  a 
particularly  inaccessible  and  lonely  place  that  event 
should  occur  in  the  night  The  surgeon,  having  been 
of  late  years  a  town  man,  hated  the  solitary  midnight 
woodland.  He  was  not  altogether  skilful  with  the 
reins,  and  it  often  occurred  to  his  mind  that  if  in  some 
remote  depths  of  the  trees  an  accident  were  to 
happen,  his  being  alone  might  be  the  death  of  him. 
Hence  he  made  a  practice  of  picking  up  any  country- 
man or  lad  whom  he  chanced  to  pass  by,  and  under 
the  disguise  of  treating  him  to  a  nice  drive  obtained 
his  companionship  on  the  journey,  and  his  convenient 
assistance  in  opening  gates. 

The  doctor  had  started  on  his  way  out  of  the 
village  on  the  night  in  question  when  the  light  of 
his  lamps  fell  upon  the  musing  form  of  Winterborne, 
walking  leisurely  along  as  if  he  had  no  object  in  life. 
Winterborne  was  a  better  class  of  companion  than 
the  doctor  usually  could  get,  and  he  at  once  pulled 
up  and  asked  him  if  he  would  like  a  drive  through  the 
wood  that  fine  night. 

Giles  seemed  rather  surprised  at  the  doctor*s 
friendliness,  but  said  that  he  had  no  objection,  and 
accordingly  mounted  beside  Mr.  Fitzpiers. 

They  drove  along  under  the  black  boughs  which 
formed  a  tracery  upon  the  stars.  Looking  up  as 
they  passed  under  a  horizontal  limb  they  sometimes 
saw  objects  like  large  tadpoles  lodged  diametrically 
across  it,  which  Giles  explained  to  be  pheasants  at 
roost ;  and  they  sometimes  heard  the  report  of  a 
gun,  which  reminded  him  that  others  knew  what 
those  tadpole  shapes  represented  as  well  as  he. 

136 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

Presently  the  doctor  said  what  he  had  been  going 
to  say  for  some  time  : 

*  Is  there  a  young  lady  staying  in  this  neighbour- 
hood— a  very  attractive  girl — with  a  little  white  boa 
round  her  neck,  and  white  fur  round  her  gloves  ? ' 

Winterborne,  of  course,  knew  in  a  moment  that 
Grace,  whom  he  had  caught  the  doctor  peering  at, 
was  represented  by  these  accessories.  With  a  wary 
grimness  induced  by  the  circumstances  he  evaded  an 
answer  by  saying,  '  I  saw  a  young  lady  talking  to 
Mrs.  Charmond  the  other  day ;  perhaps  it  was  she.' 

*  It  might  have  been,'  said  Fitzpiers.  *  She  is 
quite  a  gentlewoman — the  one  I  mean.  She  cannot 
be  a  permanent  resident  in  Hintock,  or  I  should  have 
seen  her  before.     Nor  does  she  look  like  one.' 

*  She  is  not  staying  at  Hintock  House  ? ' 

*  No ;  it  is  closed.* 

*  Then  perhaps  she  is  staying  at  one  of  the  cottages, 
or  farmhouses  ? ' 

'  O  no — you  mistake.  She  was  a  different  sort  of 
woman  altogether.'  As  Giles  was  nobody  Fitzpiers 
treated  him  accordingly,  and  rhapsodized  to  the  night 
in  continuation  : 

*  She  moved  upon  this  earth  a  shape  of  brightness^ 
A  power,  that  from  its  objects  scarcely  drew 
One  impulse  of  her  being — in  her  lightness 
Most  like  some  radiant  cloud  of  morning  dew 
Which  wanders  through  the  waste  air's  pathless  blue 
To  nourish  some  far  desert :  she  did  seem 
Beside  me,  gathering  beauty  as  she  grew. 
Like  the  bright  shade  of  some  immortal  dream 
Which  walks,  when  tempests  sleep,  the  wave  of  life's  dark  stream. 

The  charm  of  the  lines  seemed  to  Winterborne 
to  be  somehow  the  result  of  his  lost  love's  charms 
upon  Fitzpiers. 

*  You  seem  to  be  mightily  in  love  with  her,  sir,' 
he  said,  with  a  sensation  of  heart-sickness,  and  more 
than  ever  resolved  not  to  mention  Grace  by  name. 

*0    no — I    am    not    that,    Winterborne;    people 

137 


\ 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

living  insulated,  as  I  do  by  the  solitude  of  this  place, 
get  charged  with  emotive  fluid  like  a  Leyden  jar  with 
electric,  for  want  of  some  conductor  at  hand  to  dis- 
perse it.  Human  love  is  a  subjective  thing — the 
essence  itself  of  man,  as  that  great  thinker  Spinoza 
says — ipsa  hominis  essentia — it  is  joy  accompanied  by 
an  idea  which  we  project  against  any  suitable  object 
in  the  line  of  our  vision,  just  as  the  rainbow  iris  is 
projected  against  an  oak,  ash,  or  elm  tree  indifferently. 
So  that  if  any  other  young  lady  had  appeared  instead 
of  the  one  who  did  appear,  I  should  have  felt  just  the 
same  interest  in  her,  and  have  quoted  precisely  the 
same  lines  from  Shelley  about  her,  as  about  this  one 
I  saw.  Such  miserable  creatures  of  circumstance  are 
we  all ! ' 

*  Well,  it  is  what  we  call  being  in  love  down  in 
these  parts,  whether  or  no,'  said  Winterborne. 

*  You  are  right  enough  if  you  admit  that  I  am  in 
love  with  something  in  my  own  head,  and  no  thing- 
in-itself  outside  it  at  all.' 

'  Is  it  part  of  a  country  doctor's  duties  to  learn 
that  view  of  things,  may  I  ask,  sir  .-* '  said  Winter- 
borne,  adopting  the  Socratic  dpwveia  with  such  well- 
assumed  simplicity  that  Fitzpiers  answered  readily — 

'  O  no.  The  real  truth  is,  Winterborne,  that 
medical  practice  in  places  like  this  is  a  very  rule  of 
thumb  matter:  a  bottle  of  bitter  stuff  for  this  and 
that  old  woman — the  bitterer  the  better — compounded 
from  a  few  simple  stereotyped  prescriptions ;  occa- 
sional attendance  at  births,  where  mere  presence  is 
almost  sufficient,  so  healthy  and  strong  are  the  people  ; 
and  a  lance  for  an  abscess  now  and  then.  Investi- 
gation and  experiment  cannot  be  carried  on  without 
more  appliances  than  one  has  here — though  I  have 
attempted  a  little.' 

Giles  did  not  enter  into  this  view  of  the  case  ;  what 
he  had  been  struck  with  was  the  curious  parallelism 
between  Mr.  Fitzpiers's  manner  and  Grace's,  as  shown 
by  the  fact  of  both  of  them  straying  into  a  subject 

138 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

of  discourse  so  engrossing  to  themselves  that  it  made 
them  forget  it  was  foreign  to  him. 

Nothing  further  passed  between  himself  and  the 
doctor  in  relation  to  Grace  till  they  were  on  their  way 
back.  They  had  stopped  at  a  wayside  inn  for  a  glass 
of  brandy-and-cider  hot,  and  when  they  were  again 
in  motion  Fitzpiers,  possibly  a  little  warmed  by  the 
liquor,  resumed  the  subject  by  saying,  *  I  should  like 
very  much  to  know  who  that  young  lady  was.' 

*  What  difference  can  it  make,  if  she's  only  the  tree 
your  rainbow  falls  on  ?  * 

*Ha,  ha!     True.' 

*  You  have  no  wife,  sir  ?  ' 

*  I  have  no  wife  ;  and  no  idea  of  one.  I  hope  to 
do  better  things  than  marry  and  settle  in  Hintock. 
Not  but  that  it  is  well  for  a  medical  man  to  be 
married  ;  and  sometimes,  begad,  'twould  be  pleasant 
enough  in  this  place,  with  the  wind  roaring  round 
the  house,  and  the  rain  and  the  boughs  beating  against 
it.  I  hear  that  you  lost  your  lifeholds  by  the  death 
of  South  ? ' 

*  I  did.     I  lost  by  that  in  more  ways  than  one.' 
They  had  reached  the  top  of  Hintock   Lane  or 

Street,  if  it  could  be  called  such  where  three-quarters 
of  the  roadside  consisted  of  copse  and  orchard.  One 
of  the  first  houses  to  be  passed  was  Melbury's.  A 
light  was  shining  from  a  bedroom  window  facing 
lengthwise  of  the  lane.  Winterborne  glanced  at  it, 
and  saw  what  was  coming.  He  had  withheld  an 
answer  to  the  doctor's  inquiry,  to  hinder  his  knowledge 
of  Grace.  But  '  who  hath  gathered  the  wind  in  his 
fists  ?  who  hath  bound  the  waters  in  a  garment  ? ' — 
he  could  not  hinder  what  was  doomed  to  arrive,  and 
might  just  as  well  have  been  outspoken.  As  they 
came  up  to  the  house  Grace's  figure  was  distinctly 
visible,  drawing  the  two  white  curtains  together  which 
were  used  here  instead  of  blinds. 

*  Why,  there  she  is  ! '  said  Fitzpiers.  *  How  in  the 
name  of  Heaven  does  she  come  there  ?  * 

139 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

*  In  the  most  natural  way  in  the  world.  It  is  her 
home.     Mr.  Melbury  is  her  father.' 

*  Indeed — indeed — indeed !  How  comes  he  to  have 
a  daughter  of  that  sort  ?  ' 

Winterborne  laughed  coldly.  'Won't  money  do 
anything.'  he  said,  *  if  you've  promising  material  to 
work  upon.^  Why  shouldn't  a  Hintock  girl,  taken 
early  from  home  and  put  under  proper  instruction, 
become  as  finished  as  any  other  young  lady  if  she's 
got  brains  and  good  looks  to  begin  with  ?  * 

*  No  reason  at  all  why  she  shouldn't,*  murmured 
the  surgeon  with  reflective  disappointment.  *  Only  I 
didn't  anticipate  quite  that  kind  of  origin  for  her.* 

*  And  you  think  an  inch  or  two  less  of  her  now.* 
There  was  a  little  tremor  in  Winterborne's  voice  as 
he  spoke. 

*  Well,*  said  the  doctor  with  recovered  warmth,  *  I 
am  not  so  sure  that  I  think  less  of  her.  At  first  it 
was  a  sort  of  blow ;  but,  dammy,  I'll  stick  up  for  her. 
She's  charming,  every  inch  of  her ! ' 

*  So  she  is,'  said  Winterborne.  .  •  •  *  But  not  for 
me!* 

From  this  ambiguous  expression  of  the  reticent 
woodlander  Dr.  Fitzpiers  inferred  that  Giles  disliked 
Miss  Melbury,  possibly  for  some  haughtiness  in  her 
bearing  towards  him,  and  had,  on  that  account,  with- 
held her  name.  The  supposition  did  not  tend  to 
diminish  his  admiration  for  her. 


XVII 

Grace's  exhibition  of  herself  in  the  act  of  pulling- 
to  the  window  curtains  had  been  the  result  of  an 
unfortunate  incident  in  the  house  that  day — nothing 
less  than  the  illness  of  Grammer  Oliver,  a  woman 
who  had  never,  till  now,  lain  down  for  such  a  reason 
in  her  life.  Like  others  to  whom  an  unbroken  career 
of  health  has  made  the  idea  of  keeping  their  bed 
almost  as  repugnant  as  death  itself,  she  had  con- 
tinued on  foot  till  she  literally  fell  on  the  floor ;  and 
though  she  had,  as  yet,  been  scarcely  a  day  off  duty, 
she  had  sickened  into  quite  a  different  personage 
from  the  independent  Grammer  of  the  yard  and  spar- 
house.  Ill  as  she  was,  on  one  point  she  was  firm. 
On  no  account  would  she  see  a  doctor;  in  other 
words,  Fitzpiers. 

The  room  in  which  Grace  had  been  discerned  was 
not  her  own  but  the  old  woman's.  On  the  girl's 
way  to  bed  she  had  received  a  message  from  Grammer 
to  the  effect  that  she  would  much  like  to  speak  to 
her  that  night. 

Grace  entered  and  set  the  candle  on  a  low  chair 
beside  the  bed,  so  that  the  profile  of  Grammer,  as 
she  lay,  cast  itself  in  a  coal-black  shadow  upon  the 
whitened  wall,  her  large  head  being  still  further 
magnified  by  an  enormous  turban,  which  was  really 
her  petticoat  wound  in  a  wreath  round  her  temples. 
Grace  put  the  room  a  little  in  order,  and  approaching 
the  sick  woman  said — 

*  I  am  come,  Grammer,  as  you  wish.  Do  let  us 
send  for  the  doctor  before  it  gets  later  ? ' 

141 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

**Ch  woll  not  have  him!'  said  Grammer  Oliver 
decisively. 

'  Then  somebody  to  sit  up  with  you  ? ' 

*  Can't  abear  it !  No.  I  wanted  to  see  you,  Miss 
Grace,  because  'ch  have  something  on  my  mind. 
Dear  Miss  Grace,  /  took  that  money  of  the  doctor,  after 
all!' 

*  What  money  ? ' 

*  The  ten  pounds.* 

Grace  did  not  quite  understand. 

*  The  ten  pounds  er  offered  me  for  my  head, 
because  I've  a  large  organ  of  brain.  I  signed  a  paper 
when  I  took  the  money,  not  feeling  concerned  about 
it  at  all.  I  have  not  liked  to  tell  'ee  that  it  was 
really  settled  with  him,  because  you  showed  such 
horror  at  the  notion.  Well,  having  thought  it  over 
more  at  length,  I  wish  I  hadn't  done  it ;  and  it  weighs 
upon  my  mind.  John  South's  death  of  fear  about 
the  tree  makes  me  think  I  shall  die  of  this.  .  .  .  'Ch 
have  been  going  to  ask  him  again  to  let  me  off,  but 
I  hadn't  the  face/ 

*Why?' 

'I've  spent  some  of  the  money  —  more'n  two 
pounds  o't  I  It  do  wherrit  me  terribly ;  and  I  shall 
die  o'  the  thought  of  that  paper  I  signed  with  my 
holy  cross,  as  South  died  of  his  trouble  ! ' 

*  If  you  ask  him  to  burn  the  paper  he  will,  I'm 
sure,  and  think  no  more  of  it.' 

*'Ch  have  done  it  once  already,  miss.  But  er 
laughed  cruel-like.  **  Yours  is  such  a  fine  brain, 
Grammer,"  er  said,  "that  science  couldn't  afford  to 
lose  you.  Besides,  you've  taken  my  money."  .  ,  . 
Don't  let  your  father  know  of  this,  please,  on  no 
account  whatever  ! ' 

*  No,  no.  I  will  let  you  have  the  money  to  return 
to  him.' 

Grammer  rolled  the  head  in  question  negatively 
upon  the  pillow.  '  Even  if  I  should  be  well  enough 
to  take  it  to  him  he  won't  like  it.     Though  why  he 

142 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

should  so  particular  want  to  look  into  the  works  of 
a  poor  old  woman's  headpiece  like  mine,  when  there's 
so  many  other  folks  about,  I  don't  know.  I  know 
how  he'll  answer  me:  "A  lonely  person  like  you, 
Grammer,"  er  woll  say ;  **  what  difference  is  it  to  you 
what  becomes  of  'ee  when  the  breath's  out  of  your 
body?"  O,  it  do  trouble  me!  If  you  only  knew 
how  he  do  chevy  me  round  the  chimmer  in  my 
dreams  you'd  pity  me.  How  I  could  do  it  I  can't 
think!  But  'ch  was  always  so  rackless  1  ...  If  I 
only  had  anybody  to  plead  for  me ! ' 

*  Mrs.  Melbury  would,  I  am  sure.* 

*Ay;  but  he  wouldn't  hearken  to  she!  It  wants 
a  younger  face  than  hers  to  work  upon  such  as  he.' 

Grace  started  with  comprehension.  *  You  don't 
think  he  would  do  it  for  me  ? '  she  said. 

*  O,  wouldn't  he  ! ' 

*  I  couldn't  go  to  him,  Grammer,  on  any  account. 
I  don't  know  him  at  all.' 

'  Ah,  if  I  were  a  young  lady,'  said  the  artful 
Grammer,  *  and  could  save  a  poor  old  woman's 
skellington  from  a  heathen's  chopper,  to  rest  in  a 
Christian  grave,  I  would  do  it,  and  be  glad  to.  But 
nobody  will  do  anything  for  a  poor  old  woman  but 
push  her  out  of  the  way  I ' 

*  You  are  very  ungrateful,  Grammer,  to  say  that. 
But  you  are  ill,  I  know,  and  that's  why  you  speak  so. 
Now  believe  me,  you  are  not  going  to  die  yet.  Re- 
member you  told  me  yourself  that  you  meant  to  keep 
him  waiting  many  a  year.' 

*  Ay,  one  can  joke  when  one  is  well,  even  in  old 
age ;  but  in  sickness  one's  gaiety  falters  ;  and  that 
which  seemed  small  looks  large  ;  and  the  far-off 
seems  near.' 

Grace's  eyes  had  tears  in  them.  *  I  don't  like  to 
go  to  him  on  such  an  errand,  Grammer,'  she  said. 
*  But  I  will,  if  I  must,  to  ease  your  mind  I ' 

It  was  with  extreme  reluctance  that  Grace  cloaked 
herself  next  morning  for  the  undertaking.     She  was 

143 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

all  the  more  indisposed  to  the  journey  by  reason  of 
Grammer's  allusion  to  the  effect  of  a  pretty  face 
upon  Dr.  Fitzpiers ;  and  hence  she  most  illogically 
did  that  which,  had  the  doctor  never  seen  her, 
would  have  operated  to  stultify  the  sole  motive  of 
her  journey ;  that  is  to  say,  she  put  on  a  woollen 
veil  which  hid  all  her  face  except  an  occasional  spark 
of  her  eyes. 

Her  own  wish  that  nothing  should  be  known  of 
this  strange  and  gruesome  proceeding,  no  less  than 
Grammer  Oliver  s  own  desire,  led  Grace  to  take  every 
precaution  against  being  discovered.  She  went  out 
by  the  garden-door  as  the  safest  way,  all  the  house- 
hold having  occupations  at  the  other  side.  The 
morning  looked  forbidding  enough  when  she  stealthily 
edged  forth.  The  battle  between  snow  and  thaw  was 
continuing  in  mid-air  :  the  trees  dripped  on  the  garden 
plots,  where  no  vegetables  would  grow  for  the 
dripping,  though  they  were  planted  year  after  year 
with  that  curious  mechanical  regularity  of  country 
people  in  the  face  of  hopelessness  ;  the  moss  which 
covered  the  once  broad  gravel  terrace  was  swamped  ; 
and  Grace  stood  irresolute.  Then  she  thought  of 
poor  Grammer,  and  her  dreams  of  the  doctor  running 
after  her,  scalpel  in  hand,  and  the  possibility  of  a  case 
so  curiously  similar  to  South's  ending  in  the  same 
way ;  thereupon  she  stepped  out  into  the  drizzle. 

The  nature  of  her  errand,  and  Grammer  Oliver's 
account  of  the  post-mortem  compact  she  had  made, 
lent  a  fascinating  horror  to  Grace's  conception  of 
Fitzpiers.  She  knew  that  he  was  a  young  man ;  but 
her  single  object  in  seeking  an  interview  with  him 
put  all  considerations  of  his  age  and  social  aspect  from 
her  mind.  Standing  as  she  stood  in  Grammer  Oliver's 
shoes,  he  was  simply  a  remorseless  Jehovah  of  the 
sciences,  who  would  not  have  mercy,  and  would  have 
sacrifice  ;  a  man  whom,  save  for  this,  she  would  have 
preferred  to  avoid  knowing.  But  since,  in  such  a 
small  village,  it  was  improbable  that  any  long  time 

144 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

could  pass  without  their  meeting,  there  was  not  much 
to  deplore  in  her  having  to  meet  him  now.  ' 

But,  as  need  hardly  be  said,  Miss  Melbury's  view 
of  the  doctor  as  a  merciless,  unwavering,  irresistible 
scientist  was  not  quite  in  accordance  with  fact.  The 
real  Dr.  Fitzpiers  was  a  man  of  too  many  hobbies  to 
show  likelihood  of  rising  to  any  great  eminence  in 
the  profession  he  had  chosen,  or  even  to  acquire  any 
wide  practice  in  the  rural  district  he  had  marked  out 
as  his  field  of  survey  for  the  present.  In  the  course 
of  a  year  his  mind  was  accustomed  to  pass  in  a  grand 
solar  sweep  throughout  the  zodiac  of  the  intellectual 
heaven.  Sometimes  it  was  in  the  Ram,  sometimes 
in  the  Bull ;  one  month  he  would  be  immersed  in 
alchemy,  another  in  poesy ;  one  month  in  the  Twins 
of  astrology  and  astronomy ;  then  in  the  Crab  of 
German  literature  and  metaphysics.  In  justice  to 
him  it  must  be  stated  that  he  took  such  studies  as 
were  immediately  related  to  his  own  profession  in 
turn  with  the  rest,  and  it  had  been  in  a  month  of 
anatomical  ardour  without  the  possibility  of  a  subject 
that  he  had  proposed  to  Grammer  Oliver  the  terms 
she  had  mentioned  to  her  mistress. 

As  may  be  inferred  from  the  tone  of  his  conversa- 
tion with  Winterborne  he  had  lately  plunged  into 
abstract  philosophy  with  much  zest ;  perhaps  his 
keenly  appreciative,  modern,  unpractical  mind  found 
this  a  realm  more  in  his  taste  than  any  other.  Though 
his  aims  were  desultory  Fitzpiers's  mental  constitution 
was  not  without  its  creditable  side  ;  a  real  inquirer 
he  honestly  was  at  times  ;  even  if  the  midnight  rays 
of  his  lamp,  visible  so  far  through  the  trees  of  Hin- 
tock,  lighted  rank  literatures  of  emotion  and  passion 
as  often  as,  or  oftener  than,  tjie  books  and  matdriel 
of  science. 

But  whether  he  meditated  the  Muses  or  the  philo- 
sophers, the  loneliness  of  Hintock  life  was  beginning 
to  tell  upon  his  impressionable  nature.  Winter  in 
a  solitary  house  in  the  country,  without  society,  is 

145 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

tolerable,  nay,  even  enjoyable  and  delightful,  given 
certain  conditions ;  but  these  are  not  the  conditions 
which  attach  to  the  life  of  a  professional  man  who 
drops  down  into  such  a  place  by  mere  accident. 
They  were  present  to  the  lives  of  Winterborne, 
Melbury,  and  Grace  ;  but  not  to  the  doctor's.  They 
are  old  association — an  almost  exhaustive  biographical 
or  historical  acquaintance  with  every  object,  animate 
and  inanimate,  within  the  observer's  horizon.  He 
must  know  all  about  those  invisible  ones  of  the  days 
gone  by,  whose  feet  have  traversed  the  fields  which 
look  so  grey  from  his  windows ;  recall  whose  creaking 
plough  has  turned  those  sods  from  time  to  time  ; 
whose  hands  planted  the  trees  that  form  a  crest  to 
the  opposite  hill ;  whose  horses  and  hounds  have 
torn  through  that  underwood  ;  what  birds  affect  that 
particular  brake ;  what  bygone  domestic  dramas  of 
love,  jealousy,  revenge,  or  disappointment  have  been 
enacted  in  the  cottages,  the  mansion,  the  street  or 
on  the  green.  The  spot  may  have  beauty,  grandeur, 
salubrity,  convenience;  but  if  it  lackjniempnes  it  will 
ultimately  pall  upon  him  who  settles  there  without 
opportunity  of  intercourse  with  his  kind. 

In  such  circumstances,  maybe,  an  old  man  dreams 
of  an  ideal  friend,  till  he  throws  himself  into  the  arms 
of  any  impostor  who  chooses  to  wear  that  title  on  his 
face.  A  young  man  may  dream  of  an  ideal  friend 
likewise,  but  some  humour  of  the  blood  will  probably 
lead  him  to  think  rather  of  an  ideal  mistress,  and  at 
length  the  rustle  of  a  woman's  dress,  the  sound  of  her 
voice,  or  the  transit  of  her  form  across  the  field  of  his 
vision,  will  enkindle  his  soul  with  a  flame  that  blinds 
his  eyes. 

The  discovery  of  the  attractive  Grace's  name  and 
family  would  have  been  enough  in  other  circumstances 
to  lead  the  doctor,  if  not  to  put  her  personality  out 
of  his  head,  to  change  the  character  of  his  interest  in 
her.  Instead  of  treasuring  her  image  as  a  rarity  he 
would  at  most  have  played  with  her  as  a  toy.     He 

146 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

was  that  kind  of  man.  But  situated  here  he  could 
not  go  so  far  as  amative  cruelty.  He  dismissed  all 
deferential  thought  about  her,  but  he  could  not  help 
taking  her  somewhat  seriously. 

He  went  on  to  imagine  the  impossible.  So  far, 
indeed,  did  he  go  in  this  futile  direction  that,  as 
others  are  wont  to  do,  he  constructed  dialogues  and 
scenes  in  which  Grace  had  turned  out  to  be  the 
mistress  of  Hintock  manor-house,  the  mysterious 
Mrs.  Charmond,  particularly  ready  and  willing  to  be 
wooed  by  himself  and  nobody  else. 

*  Well,  she  isn't  that,'  he  said  finally.  *  But  she*s 
a  very  sweet,  nice,  exceptional  girl.* 

The  next  morning  he  breakfasted  alone  as  usual. 
It  was  snowing  with  a  fine-flaked  desultoriness  just 
sufficient  to  make  the  woodland  grey  without  ever 
achieving  whiteness.  There  was  not  a  single  letter 
for  Fitzpiers,  only  a  medical  circular  and  a  weekly 
newspaper. 

To  sit  before  a  large  fire  on  such  mornings  and 
read,  and  gradually  acquire  energy  till  the  evening 
came,  and  then,  with  lamp  alight  and  feeling  full  of 
vigour,  to  pursue  some  engrossing  subject  or  other 
till  the  small  hours,  had  hitherto  been  his  practice 
since  arriving  here.  But  to-day  he  could  not  settle 
into  his  chair.  That  self-contained  position  he  had 
lately  occupied,  in  which  his  whole  attention  was 
given  to  objects  of  the  inner  eye,  all  outer  regard 
being  quite  disdainful,  seemed  to  have  been  taken  by 
insidious  stratagem,  and  for  the  first  time  he  had  an 
interest  without  the  house.  He  walked  from  one 
window  to  another,  and  became  aware  that  the  most 
irksome  of  solitudes  is  not  the  solitude  of  remoteness, 
but  that  which  is  just  outside  desirable  company. 

The  breakfast  hour  went  by  heavily  enough,  and 
the  next  followed  in  the  same  half-snowy,  half-rainy 
style,  the  weather  now  being  the  inevitable  relapse 
which  sooner  or  later  succeeds  a  time  too  radiant 
for  the  season,  such  as  they  had  enjoyed  in  the  late 

147 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

mid- winter  at  Hintock.  To  people  at  home  there 
these  changeful  tricks  had  their  interests ;  the  strange 
mistakes  that  some  of  the  more  sanguine  trees  had 
made  in  budding  before  their  month,  to  be  incon- 
tinently glued  up  by  frozen  thawings  now  ;  the  similar 
sanguine  errors  of  impulsive  birds  in  framing  nests 
that  were  swamped  by  snow-water,  and  other  such 
incidents,  prevented  any  sense  of  wearisomeness  in 
the  minds  of  the  natives.  But  these  were  features  of 
a  world  not  familiar  to  Fitzpiers,  and  the  inner  visions 
to  which  he  had  almost  exclusively  attended  having 
suddenly  failed  in  their  power  to  absorb  him,  he  felt 
unutterably  dreary. 

He  wondered  how  long  Miss  Melbury  was  going 
to  stay  in  Hintock.  The  season  was  unpropitious  for 
accidental  encounters  with  her  out  of  doors,  and  except 
by  accident  he  saw  not  how  they  were  to  become 
acquainted.  One  thing  was  clear — any  acquaintance 
with  her  could  only,  with  a  due  regard  to  his  future, 
be  casual,  at  most  of  the  nature  of  a  mild  flirtation  ; 
for  he  had  high  aims,  and  they  would  some  day  lead 
him  into  other  spheres  than  this. 

Thus  desultorily  thinking  he  flung  himself  down 
upon  the  couch,  which,  as  in  many  draughty  old 
country  houses,  was  constructed  with  a  hood,  being 
in  fact  a  legitimate  development  from  the  settle.  He 
tried  to  read  as  he  reclined,  but  having  sat  up  till 
three  o'clock  that  morning  the  book  slipped  from  his 
hand  and  he  fell  asleep. 


XVIII 

Grace  approached  the  house.  Her  knock,  always 
soft  in  virtue  of  her  nature,  was  softer  to-day  by 
reason  of  her  strange  errand.  However,  it  was  heard 
by  the  farmer's  wife  who  kept  the  house,  and  Grace 
was  admitted.  Opening  the  door  of  the  doctor's  room 
the  housewife  glanced  in,  and  imagining  Fitzpiers 
absent  asked  Miss  Melbury  to  enter  and  wait  a  few 
minutes  whilst  she  should  go  and  find  him,  believ- 
ing him  to  be  somewhere  on  the  premises.  Grace 
acquiesced,  went  in,  and  sat  down  close  to  the  door. 

As  soon  as  the  door  was  shut  upon  her  she  looked 
round  the  room,  and  started  at  perceiving  a  handsome 
man  snugly  ensconced  on  the  couch,  like  a  recumbent 
figure  within  some  canopied  mural  tomb  of  the  fifteenth 
century,  except  that  his  hands  were  not  exactly  clasped 
in  prayer.  She  had  no  doubt  that  this  was  the 
surgeon. 

Awaken  him  herself  she  could  not,  and  her  im- 
mediate impulse  was  to  go  and  pull  the  broad  riband 
with  a  brass  rosette  which  hung  at  one  side  of  the 
fireplace.  But  expecting  the  landlady  to  re-enter  in 
a  moment  she  abandoned  this  intention,  and  stood 
gazing  in  great  embarrassment  at  the  reclining  philo- 
sopher. 

The  windows  of  Fitzpiers's  soul  being  at  present 
shuttered  he  probably  appeared  less  impressive  than 
in  his  hours  of  animation  ;  but  the  light  abstracted 
from  his  material  features  by  sleep  was  more  than 
counterbalanced  by  the  mysterious  influence  of  that 

149 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

state,  in  a  stranger,  upon  the  consciousness  of  a 
beholder  so  sensitive.  So  far  as  she  could  criticize 
at  all  she  became  aware  that  she  had  encountered  a 
specimen  of  creation  altogether  unusual  in  that  locality. 
The  occasions  on  which  Grace  had  observed  men  of 
this  stamp  were  when  she  had  been  far  away  from 
Hintock,  and  even  then  such  examples  as  had  met 
her  eye  were  at  a  distance,  and  mainly  of  commoner 
fibre  than  the  one  who  now  confronted  her. 

She  nervously  wondered  why  the  woman  had  not 
discovered  her  mistake  and  returned,  and  went  again 
towards  the  bell-pull.  Approaching  the  chimney  her 
back  was  to  Fitzpiers,  but  she  could  see  him  in  the 
glass.  An  indescribable  thrill  passed  through  her  as 
she  perceived  that  the  eyes  of  the  reflected  image 
were  open,  gazing  wonderingly  at  her.  Under  the 
curious  unexpectedness  of  the  sight  she  became  as  if 
spell-bound,  almost  powerless  to  turn  her  head  and 
regard  the  original.  However,  by  an  effort  she  did 
turn,  when  there  he  lay  asleep  the  same  as  before. 

Her  startled  perplexity  as  to  what  he  could  be 
meaning  was  sufficient  to  lead  her  to  abandon  her 
errand  precipitately.  She  crossed  quickly  to  the  door, 
opened  and  closed  it  noiselessly,  and  went  out  of  the 
house  unobserved.  By  the  time  that  she  had  gone 
down  the  path  and  through  the  garden -door  into 
the  lane  she  had  recovered  her  equanimity.  Here, 
screened  by  the  hedge,  she  stood  and  considered  a 
while. 

Drip,  drip,  drip,  fell  the  rain  upon  her  umbrella 
and  around  ;  she  had  come  out  on  such  a  morning 
because  of  the  seriousness  of  the  matter  in  hand ;  yet 
now  she  had  allowed  her  mission  to  be  stultified  by  a 
momentary  tremulousness  concerning  an  incident  which 
perhaps  had  meant  nothing  after  all. 

In  the  meantime  her  departure  from  the  room, 
stealthy  as  it  had  been,  had  roused  Fitzpiers ;  and 
he  sat  up.  In  the  reflection  from  the  mirror  which 
Grace   had   beheld   there  was  no  mystery ;    he  had 

150 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

opened  his  eyes  for  a  few  moments,  but  had  immedi- 
ately relapsed  into  unconsciousness,  if  indeed  he  had 
ever  been  positively  awake.  That  somebody  had  just 
left  the  room  he  was  certain,  and  that  the  lovely  form 
which  seemed  to  have  visited  him  in  a  dream  was  no 
less  than  the  real  presentation  of  the  person  departed 
he  could  hardly  doubt. 

Looking  out  of  the  window  a  few  minutes  later, 
down  the  box-edged  gravel-path  which  led  to  the 
bottom,  he  saw  the  garden-door  open  and  through  it 
enter  the  young  girl  of  his  thoughts,  Grace  having 
just  at  this  juncture  determined  to  return  and  attempt 
the  interview  a  second  time.  That  he  saw  her  coming 
instead  of  going  made  him  ask  himself  if  his  first 
impression  of  her  were  not  a  dream  indeed.  She 
came  hesitatingly  along,  carrying  her  umbrella  so  low 
over  her  head  that  he  could  hardly  see  her  face. 
When  she  reached  the  point  where  the  raspberry- 
bushes  ended  and  the  strawberry -bed  began  she 
made  a  little  pause. 

Fitzpiers  feared  that  she  might  not  be  coming  to 
him  even  now,  and  hastily  quitting  the  room  he  ran 
down  the  path  to  meet  her.  The  nature  of  her  errand 
he  could  not  divine,  but  he  was  prepared  to  give  her 
any  amount  of  encouragement. 

*  I  beg  pardon.  Miss  Melbury,'  he  said.  *I  saw  you 
from  the  window,  and  fancied  you  might  imagine  that 
I  was  not  at  home — if  it  is  I  you  were  coming  for  ? ' 

*  I  was  coming  to  speak  one  word  to  you,  nothing 
more,'  she  replied.     *  And  I  can  say  it  here.' 

*  No,  no.  Please  do  come  in.  Well  then,  if  you 
will  not  come  into  the  house,  come  so  far  as  the 
porch ! ' 

Thus  pressed  she  went  on  to  the  porch,  and  they 
stood  together  inside  it,  Fitzpiers  closing  her  umbrella 
for  her. 

*  I  have  merely  a  request  or  petition  to  make,' 
she  said.  *  My  father's  servant  is  ill — a  woman  you 
know — and  her  illness  is  serious.* 

151 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

*  I  am  sorry  to  hear  it.  I  will  come  and  see  her 
at  once.' 

*  But  I  particularly  wish  you  not  to  come.' 
*0  indeed.' 

*  Yes  ;  and  she  wishes  the  same.  It  would  make 
her  seriously  worse  if  you  were  to  come.  It  would 
almost  kill  her.  .  .  .  My  errand  is  of  a  peculiar  and 
awkward  nature.  It  is  concerning  a  subject  which 
weighs  on  her  mind — that  unfortunate  arrangement 
she  made  with  you,  that  you  might  have  her  skull 
after  death.' 

*  O,  Grammer  Oliver,  the  old  woman  with  the  fine 
head.     Seriously  ill,  is  she  ?  ' 

*  And  so  disturbed  by  her  rash  compact !  I  have 
brought  the  money  back — will  you  please  return  to 
her  the  agreement  she  signed  ? '  Grace  held  out  to 
him  a  couple  of  five-pound  notes  which  she  had  kept 
ready  tucked  in  her  glove. 

Without  replying  or  considering  the  notes  Fitzpiers 
allowed  his  thoughts  to  follow  his  eyes  and  dwell 
upon  Grace's  personality,  and  the  sudden  close  re- 
lation in  which  he  stood  to  her.  The  porch  was 
narrow ;  the  rain  increased.  It  ran  off  the  porch 
and  dripped  on  the  creepers,  and  from  the  creepers 
upon  the  edge  of  Grace's  cloak  and  skirts. 

*  The  rain  is  wetting  your  dress ;  please  do  come 
in,'  he  said.  *  It  really  makes  my  heart  ache  to  let 
you  stay  here.' 

Immediately  inside  the  front  door  was  the  door 
of  his  sitting-room ;  he  flung  it  open,  and  stood  in  a 
coaxing  attitude.  Try  how  she  would  Grace  could 
not  resist  the  supplicatory  mandate  written  in  the 
face  and  manner  of  this  man,  and  distressful  resigna- 
tion sat  on  her  as  she  glided  past  him  into  the  room 
— brushing  his  coat  with  her  elbow  because  of  the 
narrowness. 

He  followed  her,  shut  the  door — which  she  some- 
how had  hoped  he  would  leave  open — and  placing  a 
chair  for  her  sat  down. 

15a 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

The  concern  which  Grace  felt  at  the  development 
of  these  commonplace  incidents  was,  of  course,  mainly 
owing  to  the  strange  effect  upon  her  nerves  of  that 
view  of  him  in  the  mirror  gazing  at  her  with  open 
eyes  when  she  had  thought  him  sleeping,  which  made 
her  faacy  that  his  slumber  might  have  been  a  feint 
based  on  inexplicable  reasons. 

She  again  proffered  the  notes ;  he  awoke  from 
looking  at  her  as  at  a  piece  of  live  statuary  and 
listened  deferentially  as  she  said,  *  Will  you  then  re- 
consider, and  cancel  the  bond  which  poor  Grammer 
Oliver  so  foolishly  gave  ? ' 

'  I'll  cancel  it  without  reconsideration.  Though 
you  will  allow  me  to  have  my  own  opinion  about 
her  foolishness.  Grammer  is  a  very  wise  woman, 
and  she  was  as  wise  in  that  as  in  other  things.  You 
think  there  was  something  very  fiendish  in  the  com- 
pact, do  you  not.  Miss  Melbury  ?  But  remember 
that  the  most  eminent  of  our  surgeons  in  past  times 
have  entered  into  such  agreements.' 

*  Not  fiendish — strange.' 

*  Yes,  that  may  be,  since  strangeness  is  not  in  the 
nature  of  a  thing,  but  in  its  relation  to  something 
extrinsic — in  this  case  an  unessential  observer.' 

He  went  to  his  desk,  and  searching  a  while  found 
a  paper  which  he  unfolded  and  brought  to  her.  A 
thick  cross  appeared  in  ink  at  the  bottom — evidently 
from  the  hand  of  Grammer.  Grace  put  the  paper  in 
her  pocket  with  a  look  of  much  relief. 

As  Fitzpiers  did  not  take  up  the  money  (half  of 
which  had  come  from  Grace's  own  purse)  she  pushed 
it  a  little  nearer  to  him.  *  No,  no.  I  shall  not  take 
it  from  the  old  woman,'  he  said.  *  It  is  more  strange 
than  the  fact  of  a  surgeon  arranging  to  obtain  a 
subject  for  dissection  that  our  acquaintance  should 
be  formed  out  of  it.' 

*  I  am  afraid  you  think  me  uncivil  in  showing 
my  dislike  to  the  notion.  But  I  did  not  mean 
to  be.' 

153 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

*  O  no,  no/ 

He  looked  at  her,  as  he  had  done  before,  with 
puzzled  interest.  *  I  cannot  think,  I  cannot  think,' 
he  murmured.  *  Something  bewilders  me  greatly.' 
He  still  reflected  and  hesitated.  *  Last  night  I  sat 
up  very  late,'  he  at  last  went  on,  *  and  on  that  account 
I  fell  into  a  little  nap  on  that  couch  about  half-an-hour 
ago.  And  during  my  few  minutes  of  unconsciousness 
I  dreamt — what  do  you  think  ? — that  you  stood  in 
the  room.' 

Should  she  tell  ?     She  merely  blushed. 

*  You  may  imagine,'  Fitzpiers  continued,  now  per- 
suaded that  it  had  indeed  been  a  dream,  *  that  I 
should  not  have  dreamt  of  you  without  considerable 
thinking  about  you  first.' 

He  could  not  be  acting  ;  of  that  she  felt  assured. 

*  I  fancied  in  my  vision  that  you  stood  there,'  he 
said,  pointing  to  where  she  had  paused.  *  I  did  not 
see  you  directly,  but  reflected  in  the  glass.  I  thought, 
what  a  lovely  creature !  The  design  is  for  once 
carried  out.  Nature  has  at  last  recovered  her  lost 
union  with  the  Idea!  My  thoughts  ran  in  that 
direction  because  I  had  been  reading  the  work  of  a 
transcendental  philosopher  last  night ;  and  I  dare  say 
it  was  the  dose  of  Idealism  that  I  received  from  it 
that  made  me  scarcely  able  to  distinguish  between 
reality  and  fancy.  I  almost  wept  when  I  awoke,  and 
found  that  you  had  appeared  to  me  in  Time,  but  not 
in  Space,  alas  ! ' 

At  moments  there  was  something  theatrical  in  the 
delivery  of  Fitzpiers's  effusion ;  yet  it  would  have 
been  inexact  to  say  that  it  was  intrinsically  theatrical. 
It  often  happens  that  in  situations  of  unrestraint,  where 
there  is  no  thought  of  the  eye  of  criticism,  real  feeling 
glides  into  a  mode  of  manifestation  not  easily  distin- 

iguishable  from  rodomontade.  A  veneer  of  affectation 
overlies  a  bulk  of  truth,  with  the  evil  consequence, 
if  perceived,  that  the  substance  is  estimated  by  the 
superficies,  and  the  whole  rejected. 

154 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

Grace,  however,  was  no  specialist  in  men's  manners, 
and  she  admired  the  sentiment  without  thinking  of 
the  form.  And  she  was  embarrassed;  'lovely  creature* 
made  explanation  awkward  to  her  gentle  modesty. 

*  But  can  it  be,'  said  he  suddenly,  *  that  you  really 
were  here  ? ' 

*  I  have  to  confess  that  I  have  been  in  the  room 
once  before,'  faltered  she.  *  The  woman  showed  me 
in,  and  went  away  to  fetch  you ;  but  as  she  did  not 
return,  I  left.' 

*  And  you  saw  me  asleep,'  he  murmured,  with  the 
faintest  show  of  humiliation. 

*Yes — if  you  were  asleep,  and  did  not  deceive 
me.' 

*  Why  do  you  say  if?  * 

*  I  saw  your  eyes  open  in  the  glass,  but  as  they 
were  closed  when  I  looked  round  upon  you  I  thought 
you  were  perhaps  deceiving  me.' 

*  Never,'  said  Fitzpiers  fervently.  *  Never  could  I 
deceive  you.' 

Foreknowledge  to  the  distance  of  a  year  or  so,  in 
either  of  them,  might  have  spoilt  the  effect  of  that 
pretty  speech.  Never  deceive  her !  But  they  knew 
nothing,  and  the  phrase  had  its  day. 

Grace  began  now  to  be  anxious  to  terminate  the 
interview,  but  the  compelling  power  of  Fitzpiers's 
atmosphere  still  held  her  there.  She  was  like  an 
inexperienced  actress  who,  having  at  last  taken  up 
her  position  on  the  boards  and  spoken  her  speeches, 
does  not  know  how  to  move  off.  The  thought  of 
Grammer  occurred  to  her.  *  I'll  go  at  once  and  tell 
poor  Grammer  of  your  generosity,'  she  said.  *  It  will 
relieve  her  at  once.' 

'  Grammer's  is  a  nervous  disease,  too  —  how 
singular,'  he  answered,  accompanying  her  to  the  door. 
*  One  moment :  look  at  this — it  is  something  which 
may  interest  you.' 

He  had  thrown  open  the  door  on  the  other  side  of 
the  passage,  and  she  saw  a  microscope  on  the  table 

155 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

of  the  confronting  room.  *  Look  into  it,  please  ;  you'll 
be  interested,'  he  repeated. 

She  applied  her  eye,  and  saw  the  usual  circle  of 
light  patterned  all  over  with  a  cellular  tissue  of  some 
indescribable  sort.  *  What  do  you  think  that  is  ? ' 
said  Fitzpiers. 

She  did  not  know. 

*  That's  a  fragment  of  old  John  South's  brain, 
which  I  am  investigating.* 

She  started  back,  not  exactly  with  aversion,  but 
with  wonder  as  to  how  it  should  have  got  there. 
Fitzpiers  laughed. 

'Here  am  I,'  he  said,  *  endeavouring  to  carry  on 
simultaneously  the  study  of  physiology  and  transcen- 
dental philosophy,  the  material  world  and  the  ideal, 
so  as  to  discover  if  possible  a  point  of  contact  between 
them  ;  and  your  finer  sense  is  quite  offended  1 ' 

*  O  no,  Mr.  Fitzpiers,'  said  Grace  earnestly ;  *  it  is 
not  so  at  all.  I  know  from  seeing  your  light  at  night 
how  deeply  you  meditate  and  work.  Instead  of  con- 
demning you  for  your  studies  I  admire  you  very 
much ! ' 

Her  face,  upturned  from  the  microscope,  was  so 
sweet,  sincere,  and  self- forgetful  in  its  aspect  that  the 
susceptible  Fitzpiers  more  than  wished  to  annihilate 
the  lineal  yard  which  separated  it  from  his  own. 
Whether  anything  of  the  kind  showed  in  his  eyes  or 
not,  Grace  remained  no  longer  at  the  microscope,  but 
quickly  went  her  way  into  the  falling  mixture  of  rain 
and  snow. 


XIX 

Instead  of  resuming  his  investigation  of  South's 
brain  Fitzpiers  reclined  and  ruminated  on  the  inter- 
view. Grace's  curious  susceptibility  to  his  presence — 
though  it  was  as  if  the  currents  of  her  life  were 
disturbed  rather  than  attracted  by  him — added  a 
special  interest  to  her  general  charm. 

Fitzpiers  was  in  a  distinct  degree  scientific,  being    y 
ready  and  zealous  to  interrogate  all  physical  mani- 
festations;   but   primarily   he    was   an    idealist.      Hern 
believed  that  behind  the  imperfect  lay  the  perfect ;"  J 
that  rare  things  were  to  be  discovered  amidst  a  bulk 
of  commonplace ;  that  results  in  a  new  and  untried 
case   might    be    different    from  those  in  other  cases 
where   the    material    conditions   had    been    precisely 
similar.     Regarding  his  own   personality   as   one   of 
unbounded  possibilities,  because  it  was  his  own  (not- 
withstanding that  the  factors  of  his  life  had  worked 
out  a  sorry  product  for  thousands),  he  saw  a  grand 
speciality  in  his  discovery  at  Hintock  of  an  altogether 
exceptional  being  of  the  other  sex. 

One  habit  of  Fitzpiers,  commoner  in  dreamers  of 
more  advanced  age  than  in  men  of  his  years,  was 
that  of  talking  to  himself  He  paced  round  his  room 
with  a  selective  tread  upon  the  more  prominent 
blooms  of  the  carpet  and  murmured :  '  This  phenomenal 
girl  will  be  the  light  of  my  life  while  I  am  at  Hintock ; 
and  the  special  beauty  of  the  situation  is  that  our 
attitude  and  relations  to  each  other  will  be  purely 
casual.     Socially  we  can   never   be   intimate.     Any- 

157 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

f  thing  like  matrimonial  intentions  towards  her,  charm- 
ing as  she  is,  would  be  absurd.     They  would  spoil 
the  recreative  character  of  such  acquaintance.     And, 
\    indeed,   I   have  other  aims  on  the  practical  side  of 
my  life.' 

Fitzpiers  bestowed  a  regulation  thought  on  the 
advantageous  marriage  he  was  bound  to  make  with  a 
woman  of  family  as  good  as  his  own,  and  of  purse 
much  longer.  But  as  an  object  of  contemplation  for 
the  present  Grace  Melbury  would  serve  to  keep  his 
soul  alive,  and  to  relieve  the  monotony  of  his  days. 

His  first  lax  notion  (acquired  from  the  mere  sight 
of  her  without  converse) — that  of  a  vulgar  intimacy 
with  a  timber-merchant's  pretty  daughter,  grated  pain- 
fully upon  him  now  that  he  had  found  what  Grace 
intrinsically  was.  Personal  intercourse  with  such  as 
she  could  take  no  lower  form  than  seemly  com- 
munion, mutual  explorations  of  the  world  of  fancy. 
Since  he  could  not  call  at  her  father's,  having  no 
practical  views,  cursory  encounters  in  the  lane,  in 
the  wood,  coming  and  going  to  and  from  church,  or 
in  passing  her  dwelling,  were  what  the  acquaintance 
would  have  to  feed  on. 

i  Such  anticipated  glimpses  of  her  realized  them- 
selves in  the  event.  Rencounters  of  not  more  than 
a  minute's  duration,  frequently  repeated,  will  build 
up  mutual  interest,  even  warm  confidence,  in  a  lonely 
place.  Theirs  grew  as  imperceptibly  as  the  twigs 
budded  on  the  trees.  There  never  was  a  particular 
moment  at  which  it  could  be  said  they  became  friends ; 
yet  a  delicate  understanding  now  existed  between  two 
who  in  the  winter  had  been  strangers. 

Spring  weather  came  on  rather  suddenly,  the  un- 
sealing of  buds  that  had  long  been  swollen  accom- 
plishing itself  in  the  space  of  one  warm  night.  The 
rush  of  sap  in  the  veins  of  the  trees  could  almost 
be  heard.  The  flowers  of  late  April  took  up  a  posi- 
tion unseen,  and  looked  as  if  they  had  been  blooming 
a  long  while,  though  there  had  been  no  trace  of  them 

158 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

the  day  before  yesterday;  birds  began  not  to  mind 
getting  wet.  In-door  people  said  they  had  heard  the 
nightingale,  to  which  out-door  people  replied  con- 
temptuously that  they  had  heard  him  a  fortnight 
before. 

The  young  doctor's  practice  being  scarcely  so 
large  as  a  London  surgeon's  he  frequently  walked  in 
the  wood.  Indeed,  such  practice  as  he  had  he  did 
not  follow  up  with  the  assiduity  that  would  have  been 
necessary  for  developing  it  to  exceptional  proportions. 

One  day,  book  in  hand,  he  went  to  a  part  of  the 
wood  where  the  trees  were  mainly  oaks.  It  was  a 
calm  afternoon,  and  there  was  everywhere  around 
that  sign  of  great  undertakings  on  the  part  of  vege- 
table nature  which  is  apt  to  fill  reflective  human 
beings  who  are  not  undertaking  much  themselves 
with  a  sudden  uneasiness  at  the  contrast.  He  heard 
in  the  distance  a  curious  sound,  something  like  the 
quack  of  ducks,  which  though  it  was  common  enough 
here  about  this  time  was  not  common  to  him. 

Looking  through  the  trees  Fitzpiers  soon  perceived 
the  origin  of  the  noise.  The  barking  season  had 
just  commenced,  and  what  he  had  heard  was  the 
tear  of  the  ripping-tool  as  it  ploughed  its  way  along 
the  sticky  parting  between  the  trunk  and  the  rind. 
Melbury  did  a  large  business  in  bark,  and  as  he  was 
Grace's  father,  and  possibly  might  be  found  on  the 
spot,  Fitzpiers  was  attracted  to  the  scene  even  more 
than  he  might  have  been  by  its  intrinsic  interest. 
When  he  got  nearer  he  recognized  among  the  work- 
men John  Upjohn,  the  two  Timothys,  and  Robert 
Creedle,  who  probably  had  been  *  lent '  by  Winter- 
borne  ;  Marty  South  also  assisted.  A  milking-pail 
of  cider  stood  near,  a  half-pint  cup  floating  on  it, 
with  which  they  dipped  and  drank  whenever  they 
passed  the  pail. 

Each  tree  doomed  to  the  flaying  process  was  first 
attacked  by  Upjohn.  With  a  small  bill -hook  he 
carefully  freed  the  collar  of  the  tree  from  twigs  and 

159 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

patches  of  moss  which  encrusted  it  to  a  height  of 
a  foot  or  two  above  the  ground,  an  operation  com- 
parable to  the  'little  toilette*  of  the  executioner's 
victim.  After  this  it  was  barked  in  its  erect  position 
to  a  point  as  high  as  a  man  could  reach.  If  a  fine 
product  of  vegetable  nature  could  ever  be  said  to 
look  ridiculous  it  was  the  case  now,  when  the  oak 
stood  naked-legged,  and  as  if  ashamed,  till  the  axe- 
man came  and  cut  a  ring  round  it,  and  the  two 
Timothys  finished  the  work  with  the  cross-cut  saw. 

As  soon  as  it  had  fallen  the  barkers  attacked  it 
like  locusts,  and  in  a  short  time  not  a  particle  of 
rind  was  left  on  the  trunk  and  larger  limbs.  Marty 
South  was  an  adept  at  peeling  the  upper  parts ;  and 
there  she  stood  encaged  amid  the  mass  of  twigs  and 
buds  like  a  great  bird,  running  her  ripping-tool  into 
the  smallest  branches,  beyond  the  furthest  points  to 
which  the  skill  and  patience  of  the  men  enabled  them 
to  proceed — branches  which,  in  their  lifetime,  had 
swayed  high  above  the  bulk  of  the  wood,  and  caught 
the  earliest  rays  of  the  sun  and  moon  while  the  lower 
part  of  the  forest  was  st-ill  in  darkness. 

*  You  seem  to  have  a  better  instrument  than  they, 
Marty,'  said  Fitzpiers. 

*  No,  sir,'  she  said,  holding  up  the  tool,  a  horse's 
leg-bone  fitted  into  a  handle  and  filed  to  an  edge  ; 
•  'tis  only  that  they've  less  patience  with  the  twigs, 
because  their  time  is  worth  more  than  mine.' 

A  little  shed  had  been  constructed  on  the  spot,  of 
thatched  hurdles  and  boughs,  and  in  front  of  it  was  a 
fire,  over  which  a  kettle  sang.  Fitzpiers  sat  down 
inside  the  shelter  and  went  on  with  his  reading,  except 
when  he  looked  up  to  observe  the  scene  and  the 
actors. 

The  thought  that  he  might  settle  here  and  become 
welded  in  with  this  sylvan  life  by  marrying  Grace 
Melbury  crossed  his  mind  for  a  moment.  Why  should 
he  go  further  into  the  world  than  where  he  was  ?  The 
secret  of  happiness  lay  in  limiting   the  aspirations; 

1 60 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

these  men*s  thoughts  were  conterminous  with  the 
margin  of  the  Hintock  woodlands,  and  why  should  not 
his  be  likewise  limited — a  small  practice  among  the 
people  around  him  being  the  bound  of  his  desires  ? 

Presently  Marty  South  discontinued  her  operations 
upon  the  quivering  boughs,  came  out  from  the  re- 
clining oak,  and  prepared  tea.  When  it  was  ready 
the  men  were  called ;  and  Fitzpiers,  being  in  a  mood 
to  join,  sat  down  with  them. 

The  latent  reason  of  his  lingering  here  so  long 
revealed  itself  when  the  faint  creaking  of  the  joints  of 
a  vehicle  became  audible,  and  one  of  the  men  said, 
*  Here's  he.'  Turning  their  heads  they  saw  Melbury's 
gig  approaching,  the  wheels  muffled  by  the  yielding 
moss. 

The  timber-merchant  was  leading  the  horse  past 
the  tree-stumps,  looking  back  at  every  few  steps  to 
warn  his  daughter,  who  kept  her  seat,  where  and  how 
to  duck  her  head  so  as  to  avoid  overhanging  branches. 
They  stopped  at  the  spot  where  the  bark-ripping 
had  been  temporarily  suspended ;  Melbury  cursorily 
examined  the  heaps  of  bark,  and  drawing  near  to 
where  the  workmen  were  sitting  down  accepted  their 
shouted  invitation  to  have  a  dish  of  tea,  for  which 
purpose  he  hitched  the  horse  to  a  bough. 

Grace  declined  to  take  any  of  their  beverage,  and 
remained  in  her  place  in  the  vehicle,  looking  dreamily 
at  the  sunlight  that  came  in  thin  threads  through  the 
hollies  with  which  the  oaks  were  interspersed. 

When  Melbury  stepped  up  close  to  the  shelter  he 
for  the  first  time  perceived  that  the  doctor  was  present, 
and  warmly  appreciated  Fitzpiers's  invitation  to  sit 
down  on  the  log  beside  him. 

*  Bless  my  heart,  who  would  have  thought  of  find- 
ing you  here,'  he  said,  obviously  much  pleased  at  the 
circumstance.  *  I  wonder  now  if  my  daughter  knows 
you  are  so  nigh  at  hand  ?     I  don't  expect  she  do.' 

He  looked  out  towards  the  gig  wherein  Grace  sat, 
her  face  still  turned  sunward  in  the  opposite  direction. 

i6i 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

*  She  doesn^t  see  us,'  said  Melbury.  *  Well,  never 
mind ;  let  her  be.* 

Grace  was  indeed  quite  unconscious  of  Fitzpiers's 
propinquity.  She  was  thinking  of  something  which  had 
little  connection  with  the  scene  before  her — thinking 
of  her  friend,  lost  as  soon  as  found,  Mrs.  Charmond 
of  her  capricious  conduct,  and  of  the  contrasting 
scenes  she  was  possibly  enjoying  at  that  very  moment 
in  other  climes,  to  which  Grace  herself  had  hoped  to 
be  introduced  by  her  friend's  means.  She  wondered 
if  this  patronizing  lady  would  return  to  Hintock  during 
the  summer,  and  whether  the  acquaintance  which  had 
been  nipped  on  the  last  occasion  of  her  residence  there 
would  develop  on  the  next. 

Melbury  told  ancient  timber-stories  as  he  sat, 
relating  them  directly  to  Fitzpiers  and  obliquely  to 
the  men,  who  had  heard  them  often  before.  Marty, 
who  poured  out  tea,  was  just  saying,  *  I  think  I'll  take 
out  a  cup  to  Miss  Grace,'  when  they  heard  a  clashing 
of  the  gig-harness  and  turning  round  Melbury  saw 
that  the  horse  had  become  restless,  and  was  jerking 
about  the  vehicle  in  a  way  which  alarmed  its  occupant, 
though  she  refrained  from  screaming.  Melbury  jumped 
up  immediately,  but  not  more  quickly  than  Fitzpiers ; 
and  while  her  father  ran  to  the  horse's  head  and 
speedily  began  to  control  him,  Fitzpiers  was  alongside 
the  gig  assisting  Grace  to  descend. 

Her  surprise  at  his  appearance  was  so  great  that, 
far  from  making  a  calm  and  independent  descent,  she 
was  very  nearly  lifted  down  in  his  arms.  He  relin- 
quished her  when  she  touched  ground,  and  hoped  she 
was  not  frightened. 

'O  no,  not  much,' she  managed  to  say.  'There 
was  no  danger  —  unless  the  horse  had  run  under 
the  trees  where  the  boughs  are  low  enough  to  hit  my 
head.' 

'  Which  was  by  no  means  impossible,  and  justifies 
any  amount  of  alarm.* 

He  referred  to  what  he  thought  he  saw  written  in 

162 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

her  face,  and  she  could  not  tell  him  that  this  had 
little  to  do  with  the  horse,  but  much  with  himself.  . 
His  contiguity  had,  in  fact,  the  same  effect  upon  her  [ 
as  on  those  former  occasions  when  he  had  come  closer 
to~lTer~nian  usual — that  of  producmg  in  her  an  un- 
accountable tendency  to  teaijulness.     Melbury  soon  \V 
put  the  horse  to  rights,  and  seeing  that  Grace  was 
safe  turned  again  to  the  work-people. 

His  daughter's  nervous  distress  had  passed  off  in 
a  few  moments,  and  she  said  quite  gaily  to  Fitzpiers 
as  she  walked  with  him  towards  the  group,  '  There's 
destiny  in  it,  you  see.  I  was  doomed  to  join  in  your 
picnic,  although  I  did  not  intend  to  do  so.' 

:  Marty  prepared  her  a  comfortable  place  and  she 
sat  down  in  the  circle,  and  listened  to  Fitzpiers  while 
he  drew  from  her  father  and  the  bark-rippers  sundry 
narratives  of  their  fathers',  their  grandfathers',  and 
their  own  adventures  in  these  woods;  of  the  mysterious 
sights  they  had  seen — only  to  be  accounted  for  by 
supernatural  agency ;  of  white  witches  and  black 
witches  :  and  the  standard  story  of  the  spirits  of  the 
Two  Brothers  who  had  fought  and  fallen,  and  had 
haunted  King's  Hintock  Court  a  few  miles  off  till 
they  were  exorcised  by  the  priest,  and  compelled  to 
retreat  to  a  swamp,  whence  they  were  returning  to 
their  old  quarters  at  the  Court  at  the  rate  of  a  cock's 
stride  every  New  Year's  Day,  Old  Style ;  hence  the 
local  saying,  *  On  new-year's  tide,  a  cock's  stride.' 

It  was  a  pleasant  time.  The  smoke  from  the 
little  fire  of  peeled  sticks  rose  between  the  sitters  and 
the  sunlight,  and  behind  its  blue  films  stretched  the 
naked  arms  of  the  prostrate  trees.  The  smell  of  the 
uncovered  sap  mingled  with  the  smell  of  the  burning 
wood,  and  the  sticky  inner  surface  of  the  scattered 
bark  glistened  as  it  revealed  its  pale  madder  hues  to 
the  eye.  Melbury  was  so  highly  satisfied  at  having 
Fitzpiers  as  a  sort  of  guest  that  he  would  have  sat 
on  for  any  length  of  time,  but  Grace,  on  whom  Fitz* 
piers's  eyes  only  too  frequently  alighted,  seemed  to 

163 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

think  it  incumbent  upon  her  to  make  a  show  of 
going ;  and  her  father  thereupon  accompanied  her  to 
the  gig. 

As  the  doctor  had  helped  her  out  of  it  he  appeared 
to  think  that  he  had  excellent  reasons  for  helping  her 
in,  and  performed  the  attention  lingeringly  enough. 

'What  were  you  almost  in  tears  about  just  now?' 
he  asked  softly. 

*I  don't  know,'  she  said;  and  the  words  were 
strictly  true. 

Melbury  mounted  on  the  other  side,  and  they 
drove  on  out  of  the  grove,  their  wheels  silently  crush- 
ing delicate-patterned  mosses,  hyacinths,  primroses, 
lords-and-ladies,  and  other  strange  and  common  plants, 
and  cracking  up  little  sticks  that  lay  across  the  track. 
Their  way  homeward  ran  along  the  western  flank  of 
the  Vale,  whence  afar  they  beheld  a  wide  district 
differing  somewhat  in  feature  and  atmosphere  from 
the  Hintock  precincts.  It  was  the  cider  country  more 
especially,  which  met  the  woodland  district  some  way 
off.  There  the  air  was  blue  as  sapphire — such  a  blue 
as  outside  that  apple-region  was  never  seen.  Under 
the  blue  the  orchards  were  in  a  blaze  of  pink  bloom, 
some  of  the  richly  flowered  trees  running  almost  up  to 
where  they  drove  along.  At  a  gate,  which  opened 
down  an  incline,  a  man  leant  on  his  arms  regarding 
this  fair  promise  so  intently  that  he  did  not  observe 
their  passing. 

'That  was  Giles,'  said  Melbury,  when  they  had 
gone  by. 

'  Was  it  ?     Poor  Giles,'  said  she. 

*  All  that  apple-blooth  means  heavy  autumn  work 
for  him  and  his  hands.  If  no  blight  happens  before 
the  setting  the  cider  yield  will  be  such  as  we  have 
not  had  for  years.* 

Meanwhile,  in  the  wood  they  had  come  from,  the 
men  had  sat  on  so  long  that  they  were  indisposed  to 
begin  work  again  that  evening;  they  were  paid  by 
the  ton,  and  their  time  for  labour  was  as  they  chose. 

164 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

They  placed  the  last  gatherings  of  bark  in  rows  for 
the  curers,  which  led  them  further  and  further  away 
from  the  shed ;  and  thus  they  gradually  withdrew 
homeward  as  the  sun  went  down, 

Fitzpiers  lingered  yet.  He  had  opened  his  book 
again,  though  he  could  hardly  see  a  word  in  it,  and 
sat  before  the  dying  fire  scarcely  knowing  of  the 
men's  departure.  He  dreamed  and  mused  till  his 
consciousness  seemed  to  occupy  the  whole  space  of 
the  woodland  round,  so  little  was  there  of  jarring 
sight  or  sound  to  hinder  perfect  mental  unity  with 
the  sentiment  of  the  place.  The  idea  returned  upon 
him  of  sacrificing  all  practical  aims  to  live  in  calm 
contentment  here,  and  instead  of  going  on  elaborating 
new  conceptions  with  infinite  pains,  to  accept  quiet 
domesticity  according  to  oldest  and  homeliest  notions. 
These  reflections  detained  him  till  the  wood  was 
embrowned  with  the  coming  night,  and  the  shy  little 
bird  of  this  dusky  time  had  begun  to  pour  out  all 
the  intensity  of  his  eloquence  from  a  bush  not  very 
far  off. 

Fitzpiers's  eyes  commanded  as  much  of  the  ground 
in  front  as  was  open.  Entering  upon  this  he  saw  a 
figure  whose  direction  of  movement  was  towards  the 
spot  where  he  sat.  The  surgeon  was  quite  shrouded 
from  observation  by  the  recessed  shadow  of  the  hurdle- 
screen,  and  there  was  no  reason  why  he  should  move 
till  the  stranger  had  passed  by. 

The  shape  resolved  itself  into  a  woman's ;  she 
was  looking  on  the  ground  and  walking  slowly,  as  if 
searching  for  something  that  had  been  lost,  her  course 
being  precisely  that  of  Mr.  Melbury's  gig.  Fitzpiers, 
by  a  sort  of  divination,  jumped  to  the  idea  that  the 
figure  was  Grace's  ;  her  nearer  approach  made  the 
guess  a  certainty. 

Yes,  she  was  looking  for  something ;  and  she 
came  round  by  the  prostrate  trees  that  would  have 
been  invisible  but  for  their  white  nakedness,  which 
enabled   her   to   avoid   them   easily.     Thus   she   ap- 

165 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

preached  the  heap  of  ashes,  and  acting  upon  what 
was  suggested  by  a  still  shining  ember  or  two  she 
took  a  stick  and  stirred  the  heap,  which  thereupon 
burst  into  a  flame.  On  looking  around  by  the  light 
thus  obtained  she  for  the  first  time  saw  the  illumined 
face  of  Fitzpiers  precisely  in  the  spot  where  she  had 
left  him. 

Grace  gave  a  start  and  a  scream  ;  she  had  not  the 
least  expected  to  find  him  there  still.  Fitzpiers  lost 
not  a  moment  in  rising  and  going  to  her  side. 

'  I  frightened  you  dreadfully,  I  know,'  he  said. 
'  I  ought  to  have  spoken ;  but  I  did  not  at  first 
expect  it  to  be  you.  I  have  been  sitting  here  ever 
since.' 

He  was  actually  supporting  her  with  his  arm  as 
though  under  the  impression  that  she  was  quite  over- 
come and  in  danger  of  falling.  As  soon  as  she  could 
collect  her  ideas  she  gently  withdrew  from  his  grasp 
and  explained  what  she  had  returned  for :  in  getting 
up  or  down  from  the  gig,  or  when  sitting  by  the  hut 
fire,  she  had  dropped  her  purse. 

*  Now  we  will  find  it,'  said  Fitzpiers. 

He  threw  an  armful  of  last  year's  leaves  on  to  the 
fire,  which  made  the  flame  leap  higher,  and  the  en- 
compassing shades  to  weave  themselves  into  a  blacker 
contrast,  turning  eve  into  night  in  a  moment.  By 
this  radiance  they  groped  about  on  their  hands  and 
knees,  till  Fitzpiers  rested  on  his  elbow,  and  looked  at 
Grace. 

'  We  almost  always  meet  in  odd  circumstances,'  he 
said ;  '  and  this  is  one  of  the  oddest.  I  wonder  if  it 
means  anything  ?  * 

*0  no,  I'm  sure  it  doesn't,*  said  Grace  in  haste, 
quickly  assuming  an  erect  posture.  '  Pray  don't  say 
it  any  more.' 

*  I  hope  there  was  not  much  money  in  the  purse,* 
said  Fitzpiers,  rising  to  his  feet  more  slowly,  and 
brushing  the  leaves  from  his  trousers. 

*  Scarcely   any,     I    cared   most   about   the   purse 

1 66 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

Itself,  because  it  was  given  me.  Indeed,  money  is 
of  little  more  use  at  Hintock  than  on  Crusoe's  island: 
there's  hardly  any  way  of  spending  it.' 

They  had  given  up  the  search  when  Fitzpiers  dis- 
cerned something  by  his  foot.  *  Here  it  is  ! '  he  said. 
*  So  that  your  father,  mother,  friend,  or  admirer  will 
not  have  his  or  her  feelings  hurt  by  a  sense  of  your 
negligence  after  all.' 

'  O,  he  knows  nothing  of  what  I  do  now.* 

*  The  admirer  ? '  said  Fitzpiers  slyly. 

*  I  don't  know  if  you  would  call  him  that,*  said 
Grace  with  simplicity.  *  The  admirer  is  a  superfi- 
cial, conditional  creature,  and  this  person  is  quite 
different.' 

*  He  has  all  the  cardinal  virtues  ? ' 

'  Perhaps — though  I  don't  know  them  precisely.* 

*  You  unconsciously  practise  them.  Miss  Melbury, 
which  is  better.  According  to  Schleiermacher  they 
are  Self-control,  Perseverance,  Wisdom,  and  Love ; 
and  his  is  the  best  list  that  I  know.' 

*  I  am  afraid  poor — '  She  was  going  to  say  that 
she  feared  Winterborne,  the  giver  of  the  purse  years 
before,  had  not  much  perseverance,  though  he  had  all 
the  other  three ;  but  she  determined  to  go  no  further 
in  this  direction,  and  was  silent. 

These  half-revelations  made  a  perceptible  difference 
in  Fitzpiers.  His  sense  of  personal  superiority  wasted 
away,  and  Grace  assumed  in  his  eyes  the  true  aspect 
of  a  mistress  in  her  lover's  regard. 

*  Miss  Melbury,'  he  said  suddenly;  *  I  divine  that 
this  virtuous  man  you  mention  has  been  refused  by 
you  } ' 

She  could  do  no  otherwise  than  admit  it. 

*  I  did  not  inquire  without  good  reason.  God 
forbid  that  I  should  kneel  in  another's  place  at  any 
shrine  unfairly.  But,  my  dear  Miss  Melbury,  now 
that  he  is  gone  from  the  temple,  may  I  draw  near  } ' 

*  I — I  can't  say  anything  about  that !  *  she  cried 
quickly.     '  Because  when  a  man  has  been  refused  you 

167 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

feel  pity  for  him,  and  like  him  more  than  you  did 
before.* 

This  increasing  complication  added  still  more 
value  to  Grace  in  the  surgeon's  eyes :  it  rendered 
her  adorable.  *  But  cannot  you  say  ? '  he  pleaded 
distractedly. 

*  I'd  rather  not — I  think  I  must  go  home  at  once.* 
*0  yes,'  said  Fitzpiers. 

But  as  he  did  not  move  she  felt  it  awkward  to 
walk  straight  away  from  him ;  and  so  they  stood 
silently  together.  A  diversion  was  created  by  the 
accident  of  two  large  birds,  that  had  either  been 
roosting  above  their  heads  or  nesting  there,  tumbling 
one  over  the  other  into  the  hot  ashes  at  their  feet, 
apparently  engrossed  in  a  desperate  quarrel  that 
prevented  the  use  of  their  wings.  They  speedily 
parted,  however,  and  flew  up  with  a  singed  smell,  and 
were  seen  no  more. 

*  That's  the  end  of  what  is  called  love,'  said  some 
one. 

The  speaker  was  neither  Grace  nor  Fitzpiers,  but 
Marty  South,  who  approached  with  her  face  turned 
up  to  the  sky  in  her  endeavour  to  trace  the  birds. 
Suddenly  perceiving  Grace  she  exclaimed,  *  O — Miss 
Melbury  ! — I  have  been  looking  at  they  pigeons,  and 
didn't  see  you.  And  here's  Mr.  Winterborne ! '  she 
continued  shyly,  as  she  looked  towards  Fitzpiers,  who 
stood  in  the  background. 

'  Marty,'  Grace  interrupted ;  *  I  want  you  to  walk 
home  with  me — will  you  ?  Come  along.'  And  with- 
out lingering  longer  she  took  hold  of  Marty's  arm  and 
led  her  away. 

They  went  between  the  spectral  arms  of  the 
peeled  trees  as  they  lay,  and  onward  among  the 
growing  ones  by  a  path  where  there  were  no  oaks, 
and  no  barking,  and  no  Fitzpiers — nothing  but  copse- 
wood,  between  which  the  primroses  could  be  dis- 
cerned in  pale  bunches. 

*  I — didn't  know  Mr.  Winterborne  was  there,*  said 

i68 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

Marty,   breaking  the  silence  when  they  had  nearly 
reached  Grace's  door. 

*  Nor  was  he,'  said  Grace. 

'  But,  Miss  Melbury — I  saw  him. 

*  No/  said  Grace.     *  It  was  somebody  else.     Giles 
Winterborne  is  nothing  to  me.' 


.       XX 

The  leaves  over  Hintock  unrolled  their  creased 
tissues,  and  the  woodland  seemed  to  change  from  an 
open  filigree  to  a  solid  opaque  body  of  infinitely  larger 
shape  and  importance.  The  boughs  cast  green 
shades,  which  disagreed  with  the  complexion  of  the 
girls  who  walked  there ;  and  a  fringe  of  the  same 
boughs  which  overhung  Mr.  Melbury  s  garden  dripped 
on  his  seed-plots  when  it  rained,  pitting  their  surface 
all  over  as  with  pock-marks,  till  Melbury  declared  that 
gardens  in  such  a  place  were  no  good  at  all.  The 
two  trees  that  had  creaked  all  the  winter  left  off 
creaking,  the  whirr  of  the  night-hawk,  however,  form- 
ing a  very  satisfactory  continuation  of  uncanny  music 
from  that  quarter.  Except  at  midday  the  sun  was  not 
seen  complete  by  the  Hintock  people,  but  rather  in 
the  form  of  numerous  little  stars  staring  through  the 
leaves. 

Such  an  appearance  it  had  on  Midsummer  eve  of 
this  year,  and  as  the  hour  grew  later,  and  nine  o'clock 
drew  on,  the  irradiation  of  the  day-time  became 
broken  up  by  the  weird  shadows  and  ghostly  nooks 
of  indistinctness.  Imagination  could  trace  amid  the 
trunks  and  boughs  swarthy  faces  and  funereal  figures. 
This  was  before  the  moon  rose.  Later  on,  when  that 
planet  was  getting  command  of  the  upper  heaven,  and 
consequently  shining  with  an  unbroken  face  into  such 
open  glades  as  there  were  in  the  neighbourhood  of 
the  hamlet,  it  became  apparent  that  the  margin  of 
the    wood   which   approached   the   timber-merchant's 

I70 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

premises  was  not  to  be  left  to  the  customary  stillness 
of  that  reposeful  time. 

Fitzpiers  having  heard  a  voice  or  voices  was  look- 
ing over  his  garden  gate  (where  he  now  looked  more 
frequently  than  into  his  books)  fancying  that  Grace 
might  be  abroad  with  some  friends.  He  was  irre- 
trievably committed  in  heart  to  Grace  Melbury, 
though  he  was  by  no  means  sure  that  she  was  so  far 
committed  to  him.  That  the  Idea  had  for  once  com- 
pletely fulfilled  itself  in  the  objective  substance  (which 
he  had  hitherto  deemed  an  impossibility)  he  was 
enchanted  enough  to  fancy  must  be  the  case  at  last. 

It  was  not  Grace  who  had  passed,  however,  but 
several  of  the  ordinary  village  girls  in  a  group ;  some 
steadily  walking,  some  in  a  mood  of  wild  gaiety.  He 
quietly  asked  his  landlady,  who  was  also  in  the  garden, 
what  these  girls  were  intending,  and  she  informed  him 
that  it  being  old  Midsummer  eve  they  were  about 
to  attempt  some  spell  or  enchantment  which  would 
afford  them  a  glimpse  of  their  future  partners  for  life. 
She  declared  it  to  be  an  ungodly  performance,  and 
one  that  she  for  her  part  would  never  countenance  ; 
saying  which  she  entered  her  house  and  retired  to 
bed. 

The  young  man  lit  a  cigar,  and  followed  the  bevy 
of  maidens  slowly  up  the  road.  They  had  turned 
into  the  wood  at  an  opening  between  Melbury's  and 
Marty  South's ;  but  Fitzpiers  could  easily  track  them 
by  their  voices,  low  as  they  endeavoured  to  keep 
their  tones. 

In  the  meantime  other  inhabitants  of  Little 
Hintock  had  become  aware  of  the  nocturnal  experi- 
ment about  to  be  tried,  and  were  also  sauntering 
stealthily  after  the  frisky  maidens.  Miss  Melbury 
had  been  informed  by  Marty  South  during  the  day  of 
the  proposed  peep  into  futurity,  and,  being  only  a  girl 
like  the  rest,  she  was  sufficiently  interested  to  wish  to 
see  the  issue.  The  moon  was  so  bright  and  the  night 
so  calm  that  she  had  no  difficulty  in  persuading  Mrs. 

171 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

Melbury  to  accompany  her;  and  thus,  joined  by 
Marty,  these  went  onward  in  the  same  direction. 

Passing  Winterborne's  house  they  heard  a  noise  of 
hammering.  Marty  explained  it.  This  was  the  last 
night  on  which  his  paternal  roof  would  shelter  him, 
the  days  of  grace  since  it  fell  into  hand  having  expired ; 
and  late  as  it  was  Giles  was  taking  down  his  cupboards 
and  bedsteads  with  a  view  to  an  early  exit  next 
morning.  His  encounter  with  Mrs.  Charmond  had 
cost  him  dearly. 

When  they  had  proceeded  a  little  further  Marty 
was  joined  by  Grammer  Oliver  (who  was  as  young  as 
the  youngest  in  such  matters),  and  Grace  and  Mrs. 
Melbury  went  on  by  themselves  till  they  had  arrived 
at  the  spot  chosen  by  the  village  daughters,  whose 
primary  intention  of  keeping  their  expedition  a  secret 
had  been  quite  defeated.  Grace  and  her  stepmother 
paused  by  a  holly  tree ;  and  at  a  little  distance  stood 
Fitzpiers  under  the  shade  of  a  young  oak,  intently 
observing  Grace,  who  was  in  the  full  rays  of  the 
moon. 

He  watched  her  without  speaking,  and  unperceived 
by  any  but  Marty  and  Grammer,  who  had  drawn  up 
on  the  dark  side  of  the  same  holly  which  sheltered 
Mrs.  and  Miss  Melbury  on  its  bright  side.  The  two 
former  conversed  in  low  tones. 

'  If  they  two  come  up  in  wood  next  Midsummer 
night  they'll  come  as  one,'  said  Grammer,  signifying 
Fitzpiers  and  Grace.  *  Instead  of  my  skellinton  he'll 
carry  home  her  living  carcase  before  long.  But 
though  she's  a  lady  in  herself,  and  worthy  of  any  such 
as  he,  it  do  seem  to  me  that  he  ought  to  marry  some- 
body more  of  the  sort  of  Mrs.  Charmond,  and  that 
Miss  Grace  should  make  the  best  of  Winterborne.' 

Marty  returned  no  comment ;  and  at  that  minute 
the  girls,  some  of  whom  were  from  Great  Hintock, 
were  seen  advancing  to  work  the  incantation,  it  being 
now  about  midnight. 

*  Directly  we  see  anything  we'll  run  home  as  fast 

172 


:     THE  WOODLANDERS 

as  we  can,'  said  one,  whose  courage  had  begun  to  fail 
her.  To  this  the  rest  assented,  not  knowing  that  a 
dozen  neighbours  lurked  in  the  bushes  around. 

*  I  wish  we  had  not  thought  of  trying  this,'  said 
another,  '  but  had  contented  ourselves  with  the  hole- 
digging  to-morrow  at  twelve,  and  hearing  our  hus- 
bands* trades.  It  is  too  much  like  having  dealings 
with  the  evil  one  to  try  to  raise  their  forms.' 

However,  they  had  gone  too  far  to  recede,  and 
slowly  began  to  march  forward  in  a  skirmishing  line 
through  the  trees,  each  intending  to  plunge  alone  into 
a  deep  recess  of  the  wood.  As  far  as  the  listeners 
could  gather,  the  particular  form  of  black  art  to  be 
practised  on  this  occasion  was  one  connected  with  the 
sowing  of  hempseed,  a  handful  of  which  was  carried 
by  each  girl. 

At  the  moment  of  their  advance  they  looked  back, 
and  discerned  the  figure  of  Miss  Melbury  who,  alone 
of  all  the  observers,  stood  in  the  full  face  of  the  moon- 
light, deeply  engrossed  in  the  proceedings.  By  con- 
trast with  her  life  of  late  years  they  made  her  feel  as 
if  she  had  receded  a  couple  of  centuries  in  the  world's 
history.  She  was  rendered  doubly  conspicuous  by 
her  light  dress,  and  after  a  few  whispered  words  one 
of  the  girls  (a  bouncing  maiden  called  Suke,  plighted 
to  young  Timothy  Tangs)  asked  her  if  she  would  join 
in.  Grace  with  some  excitement  said  that  she  would, 
and  moved  on  a  little  in  the  rear  of  the  rest. 

Soon  the  listeners  could  hear  nothing  of  their 
proceedings  beyond  the  faintest  occasional  rustle  of 
leaves.  Grammer  whispered  again  to  Marty  :  *  Why 
didn't  ye  go  and  try  your  luck  with  the  rest  of  the 
maids  ?  * 

*  I  don't  believe  in  it !  *  said  Marty  shortly.  *  And 
they've  spoilt  it  by  letting  people  know.' 

*  Yes,  half  the  parish  is  here ;  the  silly  hussies 
should  have  kept  it  quiet.  I  see  Mr.  Winterborne 
through  the  leaves,  just  come  up  with  Robert  Creedle. 
Marty,  we  ought  to  act  the  part  o'  Providence  some- 

173 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

times.  Do  go  and  tell  him  that  if  he  stands  just 
behind  the  bush  at  the  bottom  of  the  slope,  Miss 
Grace  must  pass  down  it  when  she  comes  back,  and 
she  will  most  likely  rush  into  his  arms ;  for  as  soon 
as  the  clock  strikes  they'll  bundle  back  home-along 
like  hares.     I've  seen  such  larries  before.' 

*  Do  you  think  I'd  better  ? '  said  Marty  reluctantly. 

*  O  yes,  he'll  bless  ye  for  it.' 

*  I  don't  want  that  kind  of  blessing  ! ' 

But  after  a  moment's  thought  she  went  and  de- 
livered the  information  ;  and  Grammer  had  the  satis- 
faction of  seeing  Giles  walk  slowly  to  the  bend  in  the 
leafy  defile  along  which  Grace  would  have  to  return. 

Meanwhile  Mrs.  Melbury,  deserted  by  Grace,  had 
perceived  Fitzpiers  and  Winterborne,  and  also  the 
move  of  the  latter.  An  improvement  on  Grammer's 
idea  entered  the  mind  of  Mrs.  Melbury,  for  she  had 
lately  discerned  what  her  husband  had  not,  that  Grace 
was  rapidly  fascinating  the  surgeon.  She  therefore 
drew  near  to  Fitzpiers. 

*  You  should  be  where  Mr.  Winterborne  is  stand- 
ing,* she  said  to  him  significantly.  *  She  will  run  down 
through  that  opening  much  faster  than  she  went  up  it, 
if  she  is  like  the  rest  of  the  girls.' 

Fitzpiers  did  not  require  to  be  told  twice.  He 
went  across  to  Winterborne,  and  stood  beside  him. 
Each  knew  the  probable  purpose  of  the  other  in 
standing  there,  and  neither  spoke,  Fitzpiers  scorning 
to  look  upon  Winterborne  as  a  rival,  and  Winterborne 
adhering  to  the  off-hand  manner  of  indifference  which 
had  grown  upon  him  since  his  dismissal. 

Neither  Grammer  nor  Marty  South  had  seen  the 
surgeon's  manoeuvre,  and  still  to  help  Winterborne, 
as  she  supposed,  the  old  woman  suggested  to  the 
wood-girl  that  she  should  walk  forward  at  the  heels 
of  Grace,  and  *  tole  '  her  down  the  required  way  if  she 
showed  a  tendency  to  run  in  another  direction.  Poor 
Marty,  always  doomed  to  sacrifice  desire  to  obligation, 
walked  forward  accordingly,  and  waited  as  a  beacon, 

174 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

still  and  silent,  for  the  retreat  of  Grace  and  her  giddy 
companions,  now  quite  out  of  hearing. 

The  first  sound  to  break  the  silence  was  the  distant 
note  of  Great  Hintock  clock  striking  the  significant 
hour.  About  a  minute  later  that  quarter  of  the  wood 
to  which  the  girls  had  wandered  resounded  with  the 
flapping  of  disturbed  birds ;  then  two  or  three  hares 
and  rabbits  bounded  down  the  glade  from  the  same 
direction,  and  after  these  the  rustling  and  crackling 
of  leaves  and  dead  twigs  denoted  the  hurried  approach 
of  the  adventurers,  whose  fluttering  gowns  soon  became 
visible. 

Miss  Melbury  having  gone  forward  quite  in  the 
rear  of  the  rest  was  one  of  the  first  to  return,  and 
the  excitement  being  contagious  she  ran  laughing 
towards  Marty,  who  still  stood  as  a  hand-post  to 
guide  her ;  then,  passing  on,  she  flew  round  the  fatal 
bush  where  the  undergrowth  narrowed  to  a  gorge. 
Marty  arrived  at  her  heels  just  in  time  to  see  the 
result.  Fitzpiers  had  quickly  stepped  forward  in  front 
of  Winterborne,  who  disdaining  to  shift  his  position 
had  turned  on  his  heel,  and  then  the  surgeon  did 
what  he  would  not  have  thought  of  doing  but  for 
Mrs.  Melbury's  encouragement  and  the  sentiment  of 
an  eve  which  effaced  conventionality.  Stretching  out 
his  arms  as  the  white  figure  burst  upon  him  he  captured 
her  in  a  moment,  as  if  she  had  been  a  bird. 

*  O  ! '  cried  Grace  in  her  fright. 

*  You  are  in  my  arms,  dearest,*  said  Fitzpiers ; 
*and  I  am  going  to  claim  you,  and  keep  you  there 
all  our  two  lives  ! ' 

She  rested  on  him  like  one  utterly  mastered ;  and 
it  was  several  seconds  before  she  recovered  from  this 
helplessness.  Subdued  screams  and  struggles  audible 
from  neighbouring  brakes  revealed  that  there  had 
been  other  lurkers  thereabout  for  a  similar  purpose. 
Grace,  unlike  most  of  these  companions  of  hers,  instead 
of  giggling  and  writhing,  said  in  a  trembling  voice, 
*  Mr.  Fitzpiers,  will  you  let  me  go?' 

175 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

*  Certainly,*  he  said,  laughing  ;  *  as  soon  as  you  have 
recovered.' 

She  waited  another  few  moments,  then  quietly  and 
firmly  pushed  him  aside  and  glided  on  her  path,  the 
moon  whitening  her  hot  blush  away.  But  it  had  been 
enough  :  new  relations  between  them  had  begun. 

The  case  of  the  other  girls  was  different,  as  has 
been  said.  They  wrestled  and  tittered,  only  escaping 
after  a  desperate  struggle.  Fitzpiers  could  hear  these 
enactments  still  going  on  after  Grace  had  left  him, 
and  he  remained  on  the  spot  where  he  had  caught 
her,  Winterborne  having  gone  away.  On  a  sudden 
another  girl  came  bounding  down  the  same  descent 
that  had  been  followed  by  Grace ;  a  fine-framed  young 
woman,  with  bare  arms.  Seeing  Fitzpiers  standing 
there  she  said  with  playful  effrontery :  *  May'st  kiss 
me  if  'canst  catch  me,  Tim ! ' 

Fitzpiers  recognized  her  as  Suke  Damson,  a  hoy- 
denish  maiden  of  the  hamlet — the  girl  whom  he  had 
heard  swear  to  herself  when  she  got  soiled  by  the 
newly  painted  gate.  She  was  plainly  mistaking  him 
for  her  lover.  He  was  impulsively  disposed  to  profit 
by  her  error,  and  as  soon  as  she  began  racing  away  he 
started  in  pursuit. 

On  she  went  under  the  boughs,  now  in  light,  now 
in  shade,  looking  over  her  shoulder  at  him  every  few 
moments  and  kissing  her  hand ;  but  so  cunningly 
dodging  about  among  the  trees  and  moon -shades 
that  she  never  allowed  him  to  get  dangerously  near 
her.  Thus  they  ran  and  doubled,  Fitzpiers  warming 
with  the  chase,  till  the  sound  of  their  companions  had 
quite  died  away. 

He  began  to  lose  hope  of  ever  overtaking  her, 
when  all  at  once,  by  way  of  encouragement,  she  turned 
to  a  fence  in  which  there  was  a  stile,  and  leapt  over  it. 
Outside,  the  scene  was  a  changed  one  ;  a  meadow, 
where  the  half-made  hay  lay  about  in  heaps,  in  the 
uninterrupted  shine  of  the  now  high  moon. 

Fitzpiers  saw  in  a  moment  that  having  taken  to 

176 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

open  ground  she  had  placed  herself  at  his  mercy,  and 
he  promptly  vaulted  over  after  her.  She  flitted  a  little 
way  down  the  mead,  when  all  at  once  her  elusive  form 
disappeared,  as  if  it  had  sunk  into  the  earth.  She  had 
buried  herself  in  one  of  the  hay-cocks. 

Fitzpiers,  now  thoroughly  excited,  was  not  going 
to  let  her  escape  him  thus.  He  approached,  and  set 
about  turning  over  the  heaps  one  by  one.  As  soon 
as  he  paused,  tantalized  and  puzzled,  he  was  directed 
anew  by  an  imitative  kiss  which  came  from  her  hiding- 
place  under  the  hay,  and  by  snatches  of  a  local  ballad, 
in  the  smallest  voice  she  could  assume : — 

*  O  come  in  from  the  foggy,  foggy  dew.' 

In  a  minute  or  two  he  uncovered  her. 

*  O — 'tis  not  Tim  ! '  said  she  with  a  laugh,  and 
burying  her  face. 

Fitzpiers,  however,  disregarded  her  resistance  by 
reason  of  its  mildness,  stooped,  and  imprinted  the 
purposed  kiss ;  then  sank  down  on  the  same  hay-cock, 
panting  with  his  race. 

*  Whom  do  you  mean  by  Tim  ?  '  he  asked  presently. 

*  My  young  man,  Tim  Tangs,'  said  she. 

*  Now  honour  bright,  did  you  really  think  it  was 
he?' 

*  I  did  at  first.' 

*  But  you  didn't  at  last.* 

*  No.     I  didn't  at  last.' 

*  Do  you  much  mind  that  it  is  not  ?  * 

*  No,'  she  answered  slyly. 

Fitzpiers  kissed  her  again,  and  pressed  her  close 
to  him. 

He  did  not  pursue  his  questioning.  In  the  moon- 
light Suke  looked  very  beautiful,  the  scratches  and 
blemishes  incidental  to  her  outdoor  occupation  being 
invisible  under  these  pale  rays.  While  they  remained 
silent  on  the  hay  the  coarse  whirr  of  the  eternal 
night-hawk  burst  sarcastically  from  the  top  of  a  tree 
at  the  nearest  corner  of  the  wood.     Besides  this  not 

177 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

a  sound  of  any  kind  reached  their  ears,  the  time  of 
nightingales  being  now  past,  and  Hintock  lying  at 
a  distance  of  two  miles  at  least.  In  the  opposite 
direction  the  hay-field  stretched  away  into  remoteness 
till  it  was  lost  to  the  eye  in  a  soft  mist. 

It    was    daybreak    before    Fitzpiers    and     Suke 
Damson  re-entered  Little  Hintock. 


XXI 

When  the  general  stampede  occurred  WInterborne 
had  also  been  looking  on,  and  encountering  one  of 
the  girls  had  asked  her  what  caused  them  all  to  fly. 

She  said  with  solemn  breathlessness  that  they  had 
seen  something  very  different  from  what  they  had 
hoped  to  see,  and  that  she  for  one  would  never 
attempt  such  unholy  ceremonies  again.  *  We  saw 
Satan  pursuing  us  with  his  hour-glass.  It  was 
terrible!* 

This  account  being  a  little  mixed  Giles  went  for- 
ward towards  the  spot  whence  the  girls  had  retreated. 
After  listening  there  a  few  minutes  he  heard  slow 
footsteps  rustling  over  the  leaves,  and,  looking  through 
a  tangled  screen  of  honeysuckle  which  hung  from  a 
bough,  he  saw  in  the  open  space  beyond  a  short 
stout  man  in  evening  dress,  carrying  on  one  arm  a 
light  overcoat  and  also  his  hat,  so  awkwardly  arranged 
as  possibly  to  have  suggested  the  *  hour-glass '  to  his 
timid  observers — if  this  were  the  person  whom  the 
girls  had  seen.  With  the  other  hand  he  silently 
gesticulated,  and  the  moonlight  falling  upon  his  bare 
brow  showed  him  to  have  dark  hair  and  a  high  fore- 
head of  the  shape  seen  oftener  in  old  prints  and 
paintings  than  in  real  life.  His  curious  and  altogether 
alien  aspect,  his  strange  gestures,  like  those  of  one 
who  is  rehearsing  a  scene  to  himself,  and  the  un- 
usual place  and  hour,  were  sufficient  to  account  for 
any  trepidation  among  the  Hintock  daughters  at  en- 
countering him. 

179 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

He  paused  and  looked  round,  as  if  he  had  for- 
gotten where  he  was ;  not  observing  Giles,  who  was 
of  the  colour  of  his  environment.  The  latter  advanced 
into  the  light.  The  gentleman  held  up  his  hand  and 
came  towards  Giles,  the  two  meeting  half  way. 

*  I  have  lost  my  track,'  said  the  stranger.  *  Perhaps 
you  can  put  me  in  the  path  again.'  He  wiped  his 
forehead  with  the  air  of  one  suffering  under  an  agita- 
tion more  than  that  of  simple  fatigue. 

*  The  turnpike-road  is  over  there,'  said  Giles. 

*  I  don't  want  the  turnpike-road,'  said  the  gentle- 
man impatiently.  *  I  came  from  that.  I  want  Hin- 
tock  House.     Is  there  not  a  path  to  it  across  here  ?'  | 

*  Well,  yes,  a  sort  of  path.  But  it  is  hard  to  find 
from  this  point.  I'll  show  you  the  way,  sir,  with' 
pleasure.*  •> 

*  Thanks,  my  good  friend.  The  truth  is  that  I 
decided  to  walk  across  the  country  after  dinner  from 
the  hotel  at  Sherton,  where  I  am  staying  for  a  day 
or  two.     But  I  did  not  know  it  was  so  far.' 

*  It  is  about  a  mile  to  the  house  from  here.* 
They  walked  on  together.     As  there  was  no  path 

Giles  occasionally  stepped  in  front  and  bent  aside 
the  under-boughs  of  the  trees  to  give  his  companion 
a  passage,  saying  every  now  and  then  when  the  twigs, 
on  being  released,  flew  back  like  whips,  *  Mind  your 
eyes,  sir.'  To  which  the  stranger  replied,  *  Yes,  yes,* 
in  a  preoccupied  tone. 

So  they  went  on,  the  leaf-shadows  running  in 
their  usual  quick  succession  over  the  forms  of  the 
pedestrians,  till  the  stranger  said — 

*  Is  it  far  ?  ' 

*  Not  much  further,*  said  Winterborne.  •  The 
plantation  runs  up  into  a  corner  here,  close  behind 
the  house.'  He  added  with  hesitation,  *  You  know,  I 
suppose,  sir,  that  Mrs.  Charmond  is  not  at  home  ? '      ; 

*  You  mistake,'  said  the  other  shortly.  *  Mrs. 
Charmond  has  been  away  for  some  time,  but  she's 
at  home  now,* 

z8o 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

Giles  did  not  contradict  him,  though  he  felt  sure 
that  the  gentleman  was  wrong. 

*  You  are  a  native  of  this  place  ? '  the  stranger 
said. 

*Yes. 

*  You  are  happy  in  having  a  home.* 

*  I  hope  you  are  too,  sir.' 

*  It  is  what  I  don't  possess.' 

*  You  came  from  far,  seemingly  ?  * 

*  I  come  now  from  the  south  of  Europe.* 
*0  indeed,  sir.     You  are  an  Italian,  or  Spanish, 

or  French  gentleman,  perhaps  .f^' 

*  I  am  not  either.' 

Giles  did  not   fill  the  pause  which  ensued,   and 
the  gentleman,  who  seemed  of  an  emotional  nature,        ^ 
unable  to   resist  friendship,  at  length  answered  the     rj'^^ 
question.  x 

*  I  am  an  Italianized  American  ;  a  South  Carolinian  j  j 
by  birth,'  he  said.  *  I  left  my  native  country  on  the  j 
failure  of  the  Southern  cause,  and  have  never  returned  « \ 
to  it  since.' 

He  spoke  no  more  about  himself,  and  they  came 
to  the  verge  of  the  wood.  Here,  striding  over  the 
fence  out  upon  the  upland  sward,  they  could  at 
once  see  the  chimneys  of  the  house  in  the  gorge 
immediately  beneath  their  position,  silent,  still,  and 
pale. 

*  Can  you  tell  me  the  time  ?  *  the  gentleman  asked. 
*  My  watch  has  stopped.' 

*  It  is  between  twelve  and  one,'  said  Giles. 

His  companion  expressed  his  astonishment.  *  I 
thought  it  between  nine  and  ten  at  latest !  My ! 
My!' 

He  now  begged  Giles  to  return  and  offered  him 
a  gold  coin,  which  looked  like  a  sovereign,  for  the 
assistance  rendered.  Giles  declined  to  accept  any- 
thing, to  the  surprise  of  the  stranger,  who  on  putting 
the  money  back  into  his  pocket  said  awkwardly,  '  I 
thought  it  was  the  custom  here.     I  offered  it  because 

i8i 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

I  want  you  to  utter  no  word  about  this  meeting  with 
me.     Will  you  promise  ?  ' 

Winterborne  promised  readily.  He  stood  still 
whilst  the  other  descended  the  slope.  At  the  bottom 
the  stranger  looked  back  mistrustfully.  Giles  would 
no  longer  remain  when  he  was  so  evidently  desired 
to  leave,  and  returned  through  the  boughs  to  Little 
Hintock. 

He  suspected  that  this  man,  who  seemed  so  dis- 
tressed and  melancholy,  might  be  that  lover  and 
persistent  wooer  of  Mrs.  Charmond  whom  he  had 
heard  so  frequently  spoken  of,  and  whom  it  was  said 
she  had  treated  cavalierly.  But  he  received  no  con- 
firmation of  his  suspicion  beyond  a  report  which 
reached  him  a  few  days  later  that  a  gentleman  had 
called  up  the  servants  who  were  taking  care  of 
Hintock  House  at  an  hour  past  midnight;  and  on 
learning  that  Mrs.  Charmond,  though  returned  from 
abroad,  was  as  yet  in  London,  he  had  sworn  bitterly, 
and  gone  away  without  leaving  a  card  or  any  trace 
of  himself. 

The  girls  who  related  the  story  added  that  he  sighed 
three  times  before  he  swore,  and  seemed  wandering 
in  his  mind,  but  this  part  of  the  narrative  was  not  cor- 
borated.  Anyhow  such  a  gentleman  drove  away  from 
Sherton  next  day  in  a  carriage  hired  at  the  inn. 


xxir 

The  sunny,  leafy  week  which  followed  the  tender 
doings  of  Midsummer  Eve  brought  a  visitor  to  Fitz- 
piers's  door ;  a  voice  that  he  knew  sounded  in  the 
passage.     Mr.  Melbury  had  called. 

At  first  he  had  a  particular  objection  to  enter  the 
parlour  because  his  boots  were  dusty,  but  as  the 
surgeon  insisted  he  waived  the  point  and  came  in. 

Looking  neither  to  the  right  nor  to  the  left, 
hardly  at  Fitzpiers  himself,  he  put  his  hat  under  his 
chair  and  with  a  preoccupied  gaze  at  the  floor  said, 
*  I  have  called  to  ask  you,  doctor,  quite  privately,  a 
question  that  troubles  me.  I've  a  daughter,  Grace, 
an  only  daughter  as  you  may  have  heard.  Well, 
she's  been  out  in  the  dew;  on  Midsummer  Eve  in 
particular  she  went  out  in  thin  slippers  to  watch 
some  vagary  of  the  Hintock  maids;  and  she's  got  a 
cough,  a  distinct  hemming  and  hacking,  that  makes 
me  uneasy.  Now  I  have  decided  to  send  her  away 
to  some  seaside  place  for  a  change — * 

*  Send  her  away  ! '  Fitzpiers 's  countenance  had 
fallen. 

*  Yes.  And  the  question  is,  where  would  you 
advise  me  to  send  her  ? ' 

The  timber-merchant  had  happened  to  call  at  a 
moment  when  Fitzpiers  was  at  the  spring-tide  of  a 
sentiment  that  Grace  was  a  necessity  of  his  existence. 
The  sudden  pressure  of  her  form  upon  his  breast  as 
she  came  headlong  round  the  bush  had  never  ceased 
to  linger  with  him  since  he  adopted  the  manoeuvre 

183 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

for  which  the  hour  and  the  moonlight  and  the  occasion 
had  been  the  only  excuse.  Now  she  was  to  be  sent 
away. 

Ambition? — it  could  be  postponed.  Family!^ — a 
common  culture  and  reciprocity  of  tastes  had  taken 
the  place  of  family  considerations  nowadays.  He 
allowed  himself  to  be  carried  forward  on  the  wave 
of  his  desire. 

*  How  strange,  how  very  strange  it  is,*  he  said, 
'that  you  should  have  come  to  me  about  her  just 
now.  I  have  been  thinking  every  day  of  coming  to 
you  on  the  very  same  errand.' 

*  Ah  ?     You  have  noticed,  too,  that  her  health — 

*  I  have  noticed  nothing  the  matter  with  her  health, 
because  there  is  nothing.  But,  Mr.  Melbury,  I  have 
seen  your  daughter  several  times  by  accident.  I  have 
admired  her  infinitely,  and  I  was  coming  to  ask  you 
if  I  may  become  better  acquainted  with  her — pay  my 
addresses  to  her  ?  ' 

Melbury  was  looking  down  as  he  listened,  and 
did  not  see  the  air  of  half-misgiving  at  his  own  rash- 
ness that  spread  over  Fitzpiers's  face  as  he  made  this 
declaration. 

*You  have — got  to  know  her?*  said  Melbury, 
a  spell  of  dead  silence  having  preceded  his  utterance, 
during  which  his  emotion  rose  with  almost  visible 
effect. 

*  Yes,'  said  Fitzpiers. 

*  And  you  wish  to  become  better  acquainted  with 
her  ?  You  mean  with  a  view  to  marrying  o'  her — is 
that  what  you  mean  ?  ' 

*  Yes,'  said  the  young  man.  *  I  mean,  get  ac- 
quainted with  her,  with  a  view  to  being  her  accepted 
lover ;  and  if  we  suited  each  other,  what  would  natu- 
rally follow.' 

The  timber-dealer  was  much  surprised,  and  fairly 
agitated ;  his  hand  trembled  as  he  laid  by  his  walking- 
stick. 

*  This  takes  me  unawares,'  said  he,  his  voice  well- 

184 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

nigh  breaking  down.  *  I  don't  mean  that  there  is 
anything  unexpected  in  a  gentleman  being  attracted 
by  her ;  but  it  did  not  occur  to  me  that  it  would  be 
you.  I  always  said,'  continued  he,  with  a  lump  in 
his  throat,  *  that  my  Grace  would  make  a  mark  at 
her  own  level  some  day.  That  was  why  I  educated 
her.  I  said  to  myself,  "  I'll  do  it,  cost  what  it  may"  ; 
though  her  stepmother  was  pretty  frightened  at  my 
paying  out  so  much  money  year  after  year.  I  knew 
it  would  tell  in  the  end.  **  Where  you've  not  good 
material  to  work  on,  such  doings  would  be  waste  and 
vanity,"  I  said.  **  But  where  you  have  that  material, 
it  is  sure  to  be  worth  while." ' 

*  I  am  glad  you  don't  object,'  said  Fitzpiers,  almost 
wishing  that  Grace  had  not  been  quite  so  cheap  for 
him. 

*  If  she  is  willing  I  don't  object,  certainly.  Indeed,' 
added  the  honest  man,  *  it  would  be  deceit  if  I  were 
to  pretend  to  feel  anything  else  than  highly  honoured 
by  your  wish  ;  and  it  is  a  great  credit  to  her  to  have 
drawn  to  her  a  man  of  such  good  professional  station 
and  venerable  old  family.  That  huntsman-fellow  little 
thought  how  wrong  he  was  about  her !  Take  her  and 
welcome,  sir.' 

*  I'll  endeavour  to  ascertain  her  mind.* 

*Yes,  yes.  But  she  will  be  agreeable,  I  think. 
She  ought  to  be.' 

*  I  hope  she  may.  Well,  now  you'll  expect  to  see 
me  frequently  ? ' 

*  O  yes.  But,  name  it  all — about  her  cough,  and 
her  going  away.^  I  had  quite  forgot  that  that  was 
what  I  came  about.' 

*  I  assure  you,'  said  the  surgeon,  *  that  her  cough 
can  only  be  the  result  of  a  slight  cold,  and  it  is  not 
necessary  to  banish  her  to  any  seaside  place  at  all.' 

Melbury  looked  unconvinced,  doubting  whether 
he  ought  to  take  Fitzpiers's  professional  opinion  in 
circumstances  which  naturally  led  him  to  wish  to  keep 
her   by   him.      The   doctor   saw   this,    and    honestly 

185 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

dreading  to  lose  sight  of  her  he  said  eagerly, 
*  Between  ourselves,  if  I  am  successful  with  her  I  will 
take  her  away  myself  for  a  month  or  two,  as  soon  as 
we  are  married,  which  I  hope  will  be  before  the  chilly 
weather  comes  on.  This  will  be  so  very  much  better 
than  letting  her  go  now.' 

The  proposal  pleased  Melbury  much.  There 
could  be  hardly  any  danger  in  postponing  desirable 
change  of  air  as  long  as  the  warm  weather  lasted,  and 
for  such  a  reason. 

Suddenly  recollecting  himself  he  said,  *  Your  time 
must  be  precious,  doctor.  I'll  get  home-along.  I  am 
much  obliged  to  'ee.  As  you  will  see  her  often 
you'll  discover  for  yourself  if  anything  serious  is  the 
matter.' 

'  I  can  assure  you  it  is  nothing,'  said  Fitzpiers, 
who  had  seen  Grace  much  oftener  already  than  her 
father  knew  of. 

When  he  was  gone  Fitzpiers  paused,  silent, 
registering  his  sensations  like  a  man  who  has  made  a 
plunge  for  a  pearl  into  a  medium  of  which  he  knows 
neither  the  density  nor  temperature.  But  he  had 
done  it,  and  Grace  was  the  sweetest  girl  alive. 

As  for  the  departed  visitor,  his  own  last  words 
lingered  in  Melbury's  ears  as  he  walked  homeward  ; 
he  felt  that  what  he  had  said  in  the  emotion  of  the 
moment  was  very  stupid,  ungenteel,  and  unsuited  to 
a  duologue  with  an  educated  gentleman,  the  small- 
ness  of  whose  practice  was  more  than  compensated 
by  the  former  greatness  of  his  family.  He  had 
uttered  thoughts  before  they  were  weighed,  and 
almost  before  they  were  shaped.  They  had  expressed 
in  a  certain  sense  his  feeling  at  Fitzpiers's  news,  but 
yet  they  were  not  right.  Looking  on  the  ground, 
and  planting  his  stick  at  each  tread  as  if  it  were  a 
flagstaff,  he  reached  his  own  precincts  where,  as  he 
passed  through  the  court,  he  automatically  stopped  to 
look  at  the  men  working  in  the  shed  and  around.  One 
of  them  asked  him  a  question  about  waggon -spokes. 

1 86 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

*  Hey  ? '  said  Melbury,  looking  hard  at  him.  The 
man  repeated  the  words. 

Melbury  stood ;  then  turning  suddenly  away  with- 
out answering  he  went  up  the  court  and  entered  the 
house. 

As  time  was  no  concern  with  the  journeymen, 
except  as  a  thing  to  get  passed,  they  leisurely 
surveyed  the  door  through  which  he  had  disappeared. 

*  What  maggot  has  the  gaffer  got  in  his  head 
now  ? '  said  Tangs  the  elder.  '  Sommit  to  do  with 
that  chiel  of  his !  When  you've  got  a  maid  of  yer 
own,  John  Upjohn,  that  costs  'ee  what  she  costs  him, 
that  will  take  the  squeak  out  of  your  Sunday  shoes, 
John !  But  you'll  never  be  man  enough  to  accom- 
plish such  as  she ;  and  'tis  a  lucky  thing  for  'ee,  John, 
as  things  be.  Well,  he  ought  to  have  a  dozen — that 
would  bring  him  to  reason.  I  see  'em  walking 
together  last  Sunday,  and  when  they  came  to  a 
puddle  he  lifted  her  over  like  a  waxen  figure.  He 
ought  to  have  a  dozen  ;  he'd  let  'em  walk  through 
puddles  for  themselves  then.' 

Meanwhile  Melbury  had  entered  the  house  with 
the  eye  of  a  man  who  sees  a  vision  before  him.  His 
wife  was  in  the  room.  Without  taking  off  his  hat  he 
sat  down  at  random. 

*  Luce — we've  done  it ! '  he  said.  *  Yes — the 
thing  is  as  I  expected.  The  spell,  that  I  foresaw 
might  be  worked,  has  worked.  She's  done  it,  and 
done  it  well.     Where  is  she — Grace,  I  mean  ?  * 

*  Up  in  her  room  :  what  has  happened  ? ' 

Mr.  Melbury  explained  the  circumstances  as 
coherently  as  he   could.     *  I    told  you   so,'  he  said. 

*  A  maid  like  her  couldn't  stay  hid  long,  even  in  a 
place  like  this.  But  where  is  Grace  ?  Let's  have 
her  down.     Here — Gra-a-ce  ! ' 

She  appeared  after  a  reasonable  interval,  for  she 
was  sufficiently  spoilt  by  this  father  of  hers  not  to 
put  herself  in  a  hurry,  however  impatient  his  tones. 

•  W^hat  is  it,  father  ? '  said  she,  with  a  smile. 

187 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

*  Why,  you  scamp,  what's  this  you've  been  doing  ? 
Not  home  here  more  than  six  months,  yet  instead  of 
confining  yourself  to  your  father's  rank  making  havoc 
in  the  upper  classes  ! ' 

Though  accustomed  to  show  herself  instantly 
appreciative  of  her  father's  meanings  Grace  was 
fairly  unable  to  look  anyhow  but  at  a  loss  now. 

'  No,  no ;  of  course  you  don't  know  what  I  mean, 
or  you  pretend  you  don't.  Though  for  my  part  I 
believe  women  can  see  these  things  through  a  double 
hedge.  But  I  suppose  I  must  tell  'ee.  Why,  you've 
flung  your  grapnel  over  the  doctor,  and  he's  coming 
courting  forthwith.' 

'  Only  think  of  that,  my  dear !  Don't  you  feel  it 
a  triumph  ?  '  said  Mrs.  Melbury. 

•Coming  courting — I've  done  nothing  to  make 
him  ! '  Grace  exclaimed. 

*  'Twasn't  necessary  that  you  should  ;  'tis  voluntary 
that  rules  in  these  things.  Well,  he  has  behaved 
very  honourably,  and  asked  my  consent.  You'll 
know  what  to  do  when  he  gets  here,  I  dare  say.  I 
needn't  tell  you  to  make  it  all  smooth  for  him.' 

*  You  mean,  to  lead  him  on  to  marry  me  ? ' 

*  I  do.     Haven't  I  educated  you  for  it.-* ' 

Grace  looked  out  of  the  window,  and  at  the  fire- 
place, with  no  animation  in  her  face.  *  Why  is  it 
settled  off-hand  in  this  way  ? '  said  she  pettishly. 
*  You'll  wait  till  you  hear  what  I  think  of  him,  I 
suppose  ? ' 

*  O  yes,  of  course.  But  you  see  what  a  good 
thing  it  will  be.' 

She  weighed  the  statement  without  speaking. 

*  You  will  be  restored  to  the  society  you've  been 
taken  away  from,'  continued  her  father ;  '  for  I  don't 
suppose  he'll  stay  here  long.* 

She  shyly  admitted  the  advantage ;  but  it  was 
plain  that  though  Fitzpiers  when  he  was  present 
exercised  a  certain  fascination  over  her — or  even 
more,  an  almost  psychic  influence,  as  it  is  called — and 

i88 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

though  his  impulsive  act  in  the  wood  had  stirred  her 
feelings  indescribably,  she  had  never  regarded  him  in 
the  light  of  a  destined  husband.  '  I  don't  know  what 
to  answer,'  she  said.  '  I  have  learnt  that  he  is  very 
clever.' 

*  He's  all  right,  and  he's  coming  here  to  see  you.* 

A  premonition  that  she  could  not  resist  him  if  he 
came  strangely  moved  her.  *  Of  course,  father,  you 
remember  that  it  is  only  lately  that  Giles ' 

'  You  know  that  you  can't  think  of  him.  He  has 
given  up  all  claim  to  you.' 

She  could  not  explain  the  subtleties  of  her  feefing 
as  clearly  as  he  could  state  his  opinion,  even  though 
she  had  skill  in  speech,  and  her  father  had  none. 
That  Fitzpiers  acted  upon  her  like  a  dram,  exciting 
her,  throwing  her  into  a  novel  atmosphere  which 
biassed  her  doings  until  the  influence  was  over,  when 
she  felt  something  of  the  nature  of  regret  for  the 
mood  she  had  experienced — could  not  be  told  to  this 
worthy  couple  in  words. 

It  so  happened  that  on  this  very  day  Fitzpiers 
was  called  away  from  Hintock  by  an  engagement  to 
attend  some  medical  meetings,  and  his  visits  therefore 
did  not  begin  at  once.  A  note,  however,  arrived  from 
him  addressed  to  Grace,  deploring  his  enforced 
absence.  As  a  material  object  this  note  was  pretty 
and  superfine,  a  note  of  a  sort  that  she  had  been 
unaccustomed  to  see  since  her  return  to  Hintock, 
except  when  a  school  friend  wrote  to  her — a  rare 
instance,  for  the  girls  were  respecters  of  persons, 
and  many  cooled  down  towards  the  timber-dealer's 
daughter  when  she  was  out  of  sight.  Thus  the 
receipt  of  it  pleased  her,  and  she  afterwards  walked 
about  with  a  reflective  air. 

In  the  evening  her  father,  who  knew  that  the 
note  had  come,  said,  'Why  be  ye  not  sitting  down 
to  answer  your  letter  ?  That's  what  young  folks  did 
in  my  time.* 

She  replied  that  it  did  not  require  an  answer. 

189 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

•O,  ypu  know  best,'  he  said.  Nevertheless  he 
went  about  his  business  doubting  if  she  were  right 
in  not  replying ;  possibly  she  might  be  so  mismanaging 
matters  as  to  risk  the  loss  of  an  alliance  which  would 
bring  her  much  happiness. 

Melbury's  respect  for  Fitzpiers  was  based  less  on 
his  professional  position,  which  was  not  much,  than 
on  the  standing  of  his  family  in  the  county  in  bygone 
days.  That  touching  faith  in  members  of  long- 
established  families  as  such,  irrespective  of  their 
personal  condition  or  character,  which  is  still  found 
among  old-fashioned  people  in  the  rural  districts, 
reached  its  full  perfection  in  Melbury.  His  daughter's 
suitor  was  descended  from  a  line  he  had  heard  of  in 
his  grandfather's  time  as  being  once  among  the 
greatest,  a  family  which  had  conferred  its  name  upon 
a  neighbouring  village  ;  how  then  could  anything  be 
amiss  in  this  betrothal  ? 

*  I  must  keep  her  up  to  this,'  he  said  to  his  wife. 
*  She  sees  it  is  for  her  happiness  ;  but  still  she's  young, 
and  may  want  a  little  prompting  from  an  older  tongue.' 


XXIII 

With  this  in  view  Melbury  took  her  out  for  a  walk,  a 
custom  of  his  when  he  wished  to  say  anything  specially 
impressive.  Their  way  was  towards  that  lofty  ridge 
bordering  their  woodland  and  the  western  extremity 
of  the  Vale  of  Blackmoor,  the  ridge  culminating 
further  on  in  Highstoy  Hill.  They  could  look  back  over 
the  outskirts  of  the  cider  district,  where  they  had  in 
the  spring  beheld  the  miles  of  apple-trees  in  bloom. 
All  was  now  deep  green. 

The  spot  recalled  to  Grace's  mind  the  last  occasion 
of  her  sight  of  it,  and  she  said,  *  The  promise  of  an 
enormous  apple-crop  is  fulfilling  itself,  is  it  not  ?  I 
suppose  Giles  is  getting  his  mills  and  presses  ready,' 

This  was  just  what  her  father  had  not  come  there 
to  talk  about.  Without  replying  he  raised  his  arm 
and  moved  his  finger  till  he  fixed  it  at  a  point  round 
to  the  right. 

*  There,'  he   said.     *  You  see  that  hill  rising  out     r 
of  the  level  like  a  great  whale,  and  just  behind  the    / 
hill   a   particularly  green  sheltered  bottom.'^     That's   / 
where  Mr.  Fitzpiers's  family  were  lords  of  the  manor  / 
for  I  don't  know  how  many  hundred  years,  and  there 
stands  the  village  of  Oakbury  Fitzpiers.     A  wonderful 
property  'twas — wonderful ! ' 

*  But  they  are  not  lords  of  the  manor  there  now.' 

'  Why,  no.  But  good  and  great  folk  fall  as  well 
as  humble  and  foolish.  The  only  ones  representing 
the  family  now,  I  believe,  are  our  doctor  and  a  maiden 
lady  living    I    don't   know  where.      You   can't  help 

191 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

being  happy,  Grace,  in  allying  yourself  with  such  a 
romantical  family.  Why,  on  the  mother's  side  he's 
connected  with  the  long  line  of  the  Lords  Baxby  of 
Sherton.    You'll  feel  as  if  you've  stepped  into  history.* 

'We've  been  at  Hintock  as  long  as  they  were  at 
Oakbury ;  is  it  not  so  ?  You  say  our  name  occurs 
in  old  deeds  continually.' 

*  O  yes — as  yeomen,  copyholders,  and  such  like. 
But  think  how  much  better  this  will  be  for  'ee.  You'll 
be  living  a  high,  perusing  life,  such  as  has  now 
become  natural  to  you ;  and  though  the  doctor's 
practice  is  small  here  he'll  no  doubt  go  to  a  dashing 
town  when  he's  got  his  hand  in,  and  keep  a  stylish 
carriage,  and  you'll  be  brought  to  know  a  good  many 
ladies  of  excellent  society.  If  you  should  ever  meet 
me  then,  Grace,  you  can  drive  past  me,  looking  the 
other  way.  I  shouldn't  expect  you  to  speak  to  me,  or 
wish  such  a  thing — unless  it  happened  to  be  in  some 
lonely  private  place  where  'twouldn't  lower  'ee  at  all. 
Don't  think  such  men  as  neighbour  Giles  your  equal. 
He  and  I  shall  be  good  friends  enough,  but  he's  not 
for  the  like  of  you.  He's  lived  our  rough  and  homely 
life  here,  and  his  wife's  life  must  be  rough  and  homely 
likewise.' 

So  much  pressure  could  not  but  produce  some  dis- 
placement. As  Grace  was  left  very  much  to  herself 
she  took  advantage  of  one  fine  day  before  Fitzpiers's 
return  to  drive  into  the  aforesaid  vale  where  stood  the 
village  of  Oakbury  Fitzpiers.  On  another  day  she 
drove  to  the  ruins  of  Sherton  Castle,  the  original 
stronghold  of  the  Lords  Baxby,  Fitzpiers's  maternal 
ancestors. 

The  remains  were  few,  and  consisted  mostly  of 
remnants  of  the  lower  vaulting,  supported  on  low  stout 
columns  surmounted  by  the  crochet  capital  of  the 
period.  The  two  or  three  arches  of  these  vaults  that 
were  still  in  position  had  been  utilized  by  the  adjoining 
farmer  as  shelter  for  his  calves,  the  floor  being  spread 
with  straw,  amid  which  the  young  creatures  rustled, 

192 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

cooling  their  thirsty  tongues  by  licking  the  quaint 
Norman  carving,  which  glistened  with  the  moisture. 
It  was  a  degradation  of  even  such  a  rude  form  of 
art  as  this  to  be  treated  so  grossly,  she  thought, 
and  for  the  first  time  the  aspect  of  Fitzpiers 
assumed  in  her  imagination  the  hues  of  a  melancholy 
romanticism. 

She  traversed  the  distance  home  with  a  preoccupied 
mind.  The  idea  of  so  modern  a  man  in  science  and 
aesthetics  as  the  young  surgeon  springing  out  of  relics 
so  ancient  was  a  kind  of  novelty  she  had  never  before 
experienced.  The  combination  lent  him  a  social  and 
intellectual  interest  which  she  dreaded,  so  much 
weight  did  it  add  to  the  strange  influence  he  exercised 
upon  her  whenever  he  came  near  her. 

In  an  excitement  which  was  not  love,  not  ambition, 
rather  a  fearful  consciousness  of  hazard  in  the  air,  she 
awaited  his  return. 

Meanwhile  her  father  was  awaiting  him  also.  In 
his  house  there  was  an  old  work  on  medicine,  published 
towards  the  end  of  the  eighteenth  century,  and  to  put 
himself  in  harmony  with  events  Melbury  spread  this 
work  on  his  knees  when  he  had  done  his  day's  business, 
and  read  about  Galen,  Hippocrates,  and  Herophilus  ; 
of  the  dogmatic,  the  empiric,  the  hermetical,  and  other 
sects  of  practitioners  that  have  arisen  in  history ;  and 
thence  proceeded  to  study  the  classification  of  maladies 
and  the  rules  for  their  treatment  by  copious  bleeding, 
as  laid  down  in  this  valuable  book  with  absolute 
precision.  Melbury  regretted  that  the  treatise  was  so 
old,  fearing  that  he  might  in  consequence  be  unable 
to  hold  as  complete  a  conversation  as  he  could  wish 
with  Mr.  Fitzpiers,  primed,  no  doubt,  with  more 
recent  discoveries. 

The  day  of  Fitzpiers's  return  arrived,  and  he  sent 
to  say  that  he  would  call  immediately.  In  the  little 
time  that  was  afforded  for  putting  the  house  in  order 
the  sweeping  of  Melbury 's  parlour  was  as  the  sweeping 
pf  the  parlour  at   the    Interpreter's  which  well-nigh 

193 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

choked  the  Pilgrim.  Motes  stood  in  the  sunbeams, 
which  sloped  visibly  into  the  room.  At  the  end  of  it 
Mrs.  Melbury  sat  down,  folded  her  hands  and  lips,  and 
waited.  Her  husband  restlessly  walked  in  and  out 
from  the  timber-yard,  stared  at  the  interior  of  the 
room,  jerked  out  '  Ay,  ay,'  and  retreated  again. 

Between  four  and  five  Fitzpiers  arrived,  hitching 
his  horse  to  the  hook  under  the  uppingstock  outside 
the  door. 

As  soon  as  he  had  walked  in  and  perceived  that 
Grace  was  not  in  the  parlour  he  seemed  to  have  a 
misgiving.  Nothing  less  than  her  actual  presence 
could  long  keep  him  to  the  level  of  this  impassioned 
enterprise ;  that  lacking  he  appeared  as  one  who 
wished  to  retrace  his  steps. 

He  mechanically  talked  at  what  he  considered  a 
woodland  matron's  level  of  thought  till  a  rustling  was 
heard  on  the  stairs,  and  Grace  came  in.  Fitzpiers 
was  for  once  as  agitated  as  she.  Over  and  above  the 
genuine  emotion  which  she  raised  in  his  heart  there 
hung  the  sense  that  he  was  casting  a  die  by  impulse 
which  he  might  not  have  thrown  by  judgment. 

Mr.  Melbury  was  not  in  the  room  at  the  moment. 
Having  to  attend  to  matters  in  the  yard  he  had 
delayed  putting  on  his  afternoon  coat  and  waistcoat 
till  the  doctor's  appearance,  when,  not  wishing  to  be 
backward  in  receiving  him,  he  entered  the  parlour 
hastily  buttoning  up  those  garments.  Grace's  fastidi- 
ousness was  a  little  distressed  that  Fitzpiers  should 
see  by  this  action  the  strain  his  visit  was  putting  upon 
her  father ;  and  to  make  matters  worse  for  her  just 
then,  old  Grammer  seemed  to  have  a  passion  for 
incessantly  pumping  in  the  back  kitchen,  leaving  the 
doors  open  so  that  the  banging  and  splashing  were 
distinct  above  the  parlour  conversation. 

Whenever  the  chat  over  the  tea  sank  into  pleasant 
desultoriness  Mr.  Melbury  broke  in  with  speeches  of 
laboured  precision  on  very  remote  topics,  as  if  he 
feared  to  let  Fitzpiers's  mind  dwell  critically  on  the 

194 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

subject  nearest  the  hearts  of  all.  In  truth  a  con- 
strained manner  was  natural  enough  in  Melbury  just 
now,  for  the  greatest  interest  of  his  life  was  reaching 
its  crisis.  Could  the  real  have  been  beheld  instead 
of  the  corporeal  merely,  the  corner  of  the  room  in 
which  he  sat  would  have  been  filled  with  a  form 
typical  of  anxious  suspense,  large-eyed,  tight-lipped, 
awaiting  the  issue.  That  paternal  hopes  and  fears 
so  intense  should  be  bound  up  in  the  person  of  one 
child  so  peculiarly  circumstanced,  and  not  have  dis- 
persed themselves  over  the  larger  field  of  a  whole 
family,  involved  dangerous  risks  to  his  own  future 
happiness. 

Fitzpiers  did  not  stay  more  than  an  hour,  but  that 
time  had  apparently  advanced  his  sentiments  towards 
Grace,  once  and  for  all,  from  a  vaguely  liquescent 
to  an  organic  shape.  She  would  not  have  accom- 
panied him  to  the  door,  in  response  to  his  whispered 
*  Come  !  *  it  her  mother  had  not  said  in  a  matter-of-fact 
way,  *  Of  course,  Grace ;  go  to  the  door  with  Mr. 
Fitzpiers.'  Accordingly  Grace  went,  both  her  parents 
remaining  in  the  room. 

When  the  young  pair  were  in  the  great  brick- 
floored  hall  the  lover  took  the  girl's  hand  in  his,  drew 
it  under  his  arm,  and  thus  led  her  on  to  the  front  door, 
where  he  stealthily  put  his  lips  to  her  own. 

She  broke  from  him  trembling,  blushed,  and  turned 
aside,  hardly  knowing  how  things  had  advanced  to 
this.  Fitzpiers  drove  off  kissing  his  hand  to  her, 
and  waving  it  to  Melbury,  who  was  visible  through 
the  window.  Her  father  returned  the  surgeon's 
action  with  a  great  flourish  of  his  own  hand,  and  a 
satisfied  smile. 

The  intoxication  that  Fitzpiers  had,  as  usual,  pro- 
duced in  Grace's  brain  during  the  visit  passed  off 
somewhat  with  his  withdrawal.  She  felt  like  a  woman 
who  did  not  know  what  she  had  been  doing  for  the 
previous  hour ;  but  supposed  with  trepidation  that  the 
afternoon's  proceedings,  though  vague,  had  amounted 

195 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

to  an  engagement  between  herself  and  the  handsome, 
coercive,  irresistible  Fitzpiers. 

This  visit  was  a  type  of  many  which  followed  it 
during  the  long  summer  days  of  that  year.  Grace 
was  borne  along  upon  a  stream  of  reasonings,  argu- 
ments, and  persuasions,  supplemented,  it  must  be 
added,  by  inclinations  of  her  own  at  times.  No 
woman  is  without  aspirations,  which  may  be  innocent 
enough  within  limits ;  and  Grace  had  been  so  trained 
socially,  and  educated  intellectually,  as  to  see  clearly 
enough  a  pleasure  in  the  position  of  wife  to  such  a 
man  as  Fitzpiers.  His  material  standing  of  itself, 
either  present  or  future,  had  little  in  it  to  feed  her 
ambition,  but  the  possibilities  of  a  refined  and  culti- 
vated inner  life,  of  subtle  psychological  intercourse, 
had  their  charm.  It  was  this  rather  than  any  vulgar 
idea  of  marrying  well  which  caused  her  to  float  with 
the  current,  and  to  yield  to  the  immense  influence 
which  Fitzpiers  exercised  over  her  whenever  she 
shared  his  society. 

Any  observer  would  shrewdly  have  prophesied  that 
whether  or  not  she  loved  him  as  yet  in  the  ordinary 
sense,  she  was  pretty  sure  to  do  so  in  time. 

One  evening  just  before  dusk  they  had  taken  a 
rather  long  walk  together,  and  for  a  short  cut  home- 
ward passed  through  the  shrubberies  of  Hintock 
House — still  deserted,  and  still  blankly  confronting 
with  its  sightless  shuttered  windows  the  surrounding 
foliage  and  slopes. 

Grace  was  tired,  and  they  approached  the  wall,  and 
sat  together  on  one  of  the  stone  sills — still  warm  with 
the  sun  that  had  been  pouring  its  rays  upon  them  all 
the  afternoon. 

'  This  place  would  just  do  for  us,  would  it  not, 
dearest  ? '  said  her  betrothed,  as  they  sat,  turning  and 
looking  idly  at  the  old  fagade. 

*  O  yes,*  said  Grace,  plainly  showing  that  no  such 
fancy  had  ever  crossed  her  mind.     *  She  is  away  from 

196 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

home  still,'  Grace  added  in  a  minute  rather  sadly,  for 
she  could  not  forget  that  she  had  somehow  lost  the 
valuable  friendship  of  the  lady  of  this  bower. 

'Who  is? — O,  you  mean  Mrs.  Charmond.  Do 
you  know,  dear,  that  at  one  time  I  thought  you  lived 
here  "^ ' 

*  Indeed,'  said  Grace.     *  How  was  that  ?  * 

He  explained,  as  far  as  he  could  do  so  without 
mentioning  his  disappointment  at  finding  it  was  other- 
wise ;  and  then  went  on  :  *  Well,  never  mind  that. 
Now  I  want  to  ask  you  something.  There  is  one 
detail  of  our  wedding  which  I  am  sure  you  will  leave 
to  me.  My  inclination  is  not  to  be  married  at  the  y 
horrid  little  church  here,  with  all  the  yokels  staring  ^ 
round  at  us,  and  a  droning  parson  reading.' 

*  Where  then  can  it  be  ?     At  a  church  in  town  ?  ' 

*  No.  Not  at  a  church  at  all.  At  a  registry  office. 
It  is  a  quieter,  snugger,  and  more  convenient  place  in 
every  way.' 

'  O,'  said  she  with  real  distress.  *  How  can  I  be 
married  except  at  church,  and  with  all  my  dear  friends 
round  me ! ' 

'Yeoman  Winterborne  among  them.' 

*  Yes — why  not  ?  You  know  there  was  nothings 
serious  between  him  and  me.' 

*  You  see,  dear,  a  noisy,  bell-ringing  marriage  at 
church  has  this  objection  in  our  case  :  it  would  be 
a  thing  of  report  a  long  way  round.  Now  I  would 
gently,  as  gently  as  possible,  indicate  to  you  how  in- 
advisable such  publicity  would  be  if  we  leave  Hintock, 
and  I  purchase  the  practice  that  I  contemplate  pur- 
chasing at  Budmouth — barely  twenty  miles  off  For- 
give my  saying  that  it  will  be  far  better  if  nobody 
there  knows  much  of  where  you  come  from,  nor  any- 
thing about  your  parents.  Your  beauty  and  know- 
ledge and  manners  will  carry  you  anywhere  if  you  are 
not  hampered  by  such  retrospective  criticism.' 

*  But  could  it  not  be  a  quiet  ceremony,  even  at 
church  ?  '  she  pleaded. 

197 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

*  I  don't  see  the  necessity  of  going  there  !  *  he  said, 
a  trifle  impatiently.  *  Marriage  is  a  civil  contract,  and 
the  shorter  and  simpler  it  is  made  the  better.  People 
don't  go  to  church  when  they  take  a  house,  or  even 
when  they  make  a  will' 

*  O  Edred — I  don't  like  to  hear  you  speak  like 
that.' 

*  Well,  well — I  didn't  mean  to.  But  I  have  men- 
tioned as  much  to  your  father,  who  has  made  no 
objection  ;  and  why  should  you  ?  ' 

She  deemed  the  point  one  on  which  she  ought  to 
allow  sentiment  to  give  way  to  policy — if  there  were 
indeed  policy  in  his  plan.  But  she  was  indefinably 
depressed  as  they  walked  homeward. 


XXIV 

He  left  her  at  the  door  of  her  father's  house.  As  he 
receded  and  was  clasped  out  of  sight  by  the  filmy 
shades  he  impressed  Grace  as  a  man  who  hardly 
appertained  to  her  existence  at  all.  Cleverer,  greater 
than  herself,  one  outside  her  mental  orbit,  as  she  con- 
sidered him,  he  seemed  to  be  her  ruler  rather  than  her 
equal,  protector,  and  dear  familiar  friend. 

The  disappointment  she  had  experienced  at  his 
wish,  the  shock  given  to  her  girlish  sensibilities  by 
his  irreverent  views  of  marriage,  together  with  the 
sure  and  near  approach  of  the  day  fixed  for  com- 
mitting her  future  to  his  keeping,  made  her  so  restless 
that  she  could  scarcely  sleep  at  all  that  night.  She 
rose  when  the  sparrows  began  to  creep  out  of  the 
roof-holes,  sat  on  the  floor  of  her  room  in  the  dim 
light,  and  by  and  by  peeped  out  behind  the  window 
curtains. 

It  was  even  now  day  out  of  doors,  though  the  tones 
of  morning  were  feeble  and  wan,  and  it  was  long 
before  the  sun  would  be  perceptible  in  this  over- 
shadowed vale.  Not  a  sound  came  from  any  of  the 
out-houses  as  yet.  The  tree-trunks,  the  road,  the 
out -buildings,  the  garden,  every  object,  wore  that 
aspect  of  mesmeric  passivity  which  the  quietude  of 
daybreak  lends  to  such  scenes.  Helpless  immobility 
seemed  to  be  combined  with  intense  consciousness ;  a 
meditative  inertness  possessed  all  things,  oppressively 
contrasting  with  her  own  active  emotions.  Beyond 
the  road  were  some  cottage  roofs  and  orchards ;  over 

199 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

these  roofs  and  over  the  apple-trees  behind,  high  up 
the  slope,  and  backed  by  the  plantation  on  the  crest, 
was  the  house  yet  occupied  by  her  future  husband,  the 
rough-cast  front  showing  whitely  through  its  creepers. 
The  window-shutters  were  closed,  the  bedroom  curtains 
closely  drawn,  and  not  the  thinnest  coil  of  smoke  rose 
from  the  rugged  chimneys. 

Something  broke  the  stillness.  The  front-door  of 
the  house  she  was  gazing  at  opened  softly,  and  there 
came  out  into  the  porch  a  female  figure,  wrapped  in 
a  large  cloak,  beneath  which  was  visible  the  white 
skirt  of  a  long  loose  garment  like  a  night-dress.  A 
grey  arm,  stretching  from  within  the  porch,  adjusted 
the  cloak  over  the  woman's  shoulders ;  it  was  with- 
drawn and  disappeared,  the  door  closing  behind  her. 

The  woman  went  quickly  down  the  box-edged  path 
between  the  raspberries  and  currants,  and  as  she 
walked  her  well-developed  form  and  gait  betrayed  her 
individuality.  It  was  Suke  Damson,  the  affianced  one 
of  simple  young  Tim  Tangs.  At  the  bottom  of  the 
garden  she  entered  the  shelter  of  the  tall  hedge,  and 
only  the  top  of  her  head  could  be  seen  hastening  in  the 
direction  of  her  own  dwelling. 

Grace  had  recognized,  or  thought  she  recognized, 
in  the  grey  arm  stretching  from  the  porch,  the  sleeve 
of  a  dressing-gown  which  Mr.  Fitzpiers  had  been 
wearing  on  her  own  memorable  visit  to  him.  Her 
face  fired  red.  She  had  just  before  thought  of  dressing 
herself  and  taking  a  lonely  walk  under  the  trees,  so 
coolly  green  this  early  morning  ;  but  she  now  sat  down 
on  her  bed  and  fell  into  reverie. 

It  seemed  as  if  hardly  any  time  had  passed  when 
she  heard  the  household  moving  briskly  about,  and 
breakfast  preparing  downstairs  ;  though,  on  rousing 
herself  to  robe  and  descend,  she  found  that  the  sun 
was  throwing  his  rays  completely  over  the  tree-tops, 
a  progress  in  the  world's  diurnal  turn  denoting  that 
at  least  three  hours  had  elapsed  since  she  last  looked 
out  of  the  window. 

200 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

When  attired  she  searched  about  the  house  for  her 
father ;  she  found  him  at  last  in  the  garden,  stooping 
to  examine  the  potatoes  for  signs  of  disease.  Hearing 
her  rustle  he  stood  up  and  stretched  his  back  and 
arms,  saying,  *  Morning  t'ye,  Gracie.  I  congratulate 
'ee.     It  is  only  a  month  to-day  to  the  time ! ' 

She  did  not  answer,  but,  without  lifting  her  dress, 
waded  between  the  dewy  rows  of  tall  potato-green  into 
the  middle  of  the  plot  where  he  was. 

*  I  have  been  thinking  very  much  about  my  position 
this  morning — ever  since  it  was  light,'  she  began 
excitedly,  and  trembling  so  that  she  could  hardly 
stand.  *  And  I  feel  it  is  a  false  one.  I  wish  not  to 
marry  Mr.  Fitzpiers.  I  wish  not  to  marry  anybody  ; 
but  I'll  marry  Giles  Winterborne  if  you  say  I  must  as 
an  alternative.' 

Her  father's  face  settled  Into  rigidity,  he  turned 
pale,  and  came  deliberately  out  of  the  plot  before  he 
answered  her.  She  had  never  seen  him  look  so  in- 
censed before. 

'Now,  hearken  to  me,*  he  said.  *  There's  a  time 
for  a  woman  to  alter  her  mind ;  and  there's  a  time 
when  she  can  no  longer  alter  it,  if  she  has  any  right 
eye  to  her  parents'  honour  and  the  seemliness  of  things. 
That  time  has  come.  I  won't  say  to  'ee,  you  shall 
marry  him.  But  I  will  say,  that  if  you  refuse,  I  shall 
for  ever  be  ashamed  and  aweary  of  'ee  as  a  daughter, 
and  shall  look  upon  you  as  the  hope  of  my  life  no 
more.  What  do  you  know  about  life  and  what  it  can 
bring  forth,  and  how  you  ought  to  act  to  lead  up  to 
best  ends  .f*  O,  you  are  an  ungrateful  maid,  Grace ; 
you've  seen  that  fellow  Giles,  and  he  has  got  over  'ee ; 
that's  where  the  secret  lies,  I'll  warrant  me ! ' 

*  No,  father,  no!  It  is  not  Giles — it  is  something 
I  cannot  tell  you  of ' 

*  Well,  make  fools  of  us  all ;  make  us  laughing- 
stocks  ;  break  it  off ;  have  your  own  way  ! ' 

*  But  who  knows  of  the  engagement  as  yet ;  how 
can  breaking  it  disgrace  you  ?  ' 

201 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

Melbury  then  by  degrees  admitted  that  he  had 
mentioned  the  engagement  to  this  acquaintance  and 
to  that,  till  she  perceived  that  in  his  restlessness  and 
pride  he  had  published  it  everywhere.  She  went  dis- 
mally away  to  a  bower  of  laurel  at  the  top  of  the 
garden.     Her  father  followed  her. 

*  It  is  that  Giles  Winterborne !  *  he  said  with  an 
upbraiding  gaze  at  her. 

*  No,  it  is  not ;  though  for  that  matter  you  encour- 
aged him  once ! '  she  said,  troubled  to  the  verge  of 
despair.     *  It  is  not  Giles,  it  is  Mr.  Fitzpiers.' 

*  You've  had  a  tiff— a  lovers'  tiff— that's  all,  I 
suppose  ? ' 

*  It  is  some  woman ' 


*  Ay,  ay  ;  you  are  jealous.  The  old  story.  Don't 
tell  me.  Now  do  you  bide  here.  I'll  send  Fitzpiers 
to  you.  I  saw  him  smoking  in  front  of  his  house  but 
a  minute  bygone.* 

He  went  off  hastily  out  of  the  garden-gate  and 
up  the  lane.  But  she  would  not  stay  where  she  was ; 
and  edging  through  a  slit  in  the  garden  fence  walked 
away  into  the  wood. 

Just  about  here  the  trees  were  large  and  wide 
apart,  and  there  was  no  undergrowth,  so  that  she 
could  be  seen  to  some  distance ;  a  sylph-like  greenish- 
white  creature,  as  toned  by  the  sunlight  and  leafage. 
She  heard  a  footfall  crushing  dead  leaves  behind  her, 
and  turning  hastily  found  herself  reconnoitred  by 
Fitzpiers  himself,  approaching  gay  and  fresh  as  the 
morning  around  them. 

His  remote  gaze  at  her  had  been  one  of  mild 
interest  rather  than  of  rapture.  But  she  looked  so 
lovely  in  the  green  world  about  her ;  her  pink  cheeks, 
her  simple  white  dress,  and  the  delicate  flexibility  of 
her  movements  acquired  such  rarity  from  their  wild- 
wood  setting  that  his  eyes  kindled  as  he  drew  near. 

*  My  darling,  what  is  it  ?  Your  father  says  you 
are  in  the  pouts,  and  jealous,  and  I  don't  know 
what.      Ha!   ha!  ha!   as  if  there  were  any  rival  to 

202 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

you  except  vegetable  nature,  in  this  home  of  recluses. 
We  know  better.' 

*  Jealous ;   O  no,  it  is  not  so,'  said  she  gravely. 

*  That's  a  mistake  of  his  and  yours,  sir.  I  spoke  to 
him  so  closely  about  the  question  of  marriage  with 
you  that  he  did  not  apprehend  my  state  of  mind.' 

*  But  there's  something  wrong — eh?'  he  asked, 
eyeing  her  narrowly,  and  bending  to  kiss  her. 

She  shrank  away,  and  his  purposed  kiss  miscarried. 

*  What  is  it  ? '  he  said,  more  seriously  for  this  little 
defeat. 

She  made  no  answer  beyond,  *  Mr.  Fitzpiers,  I 
have  had  no  breakfast,  I  must  go  in.' 

*  Come,'   he    insisted,    fixing   his   eyes   upon   her. 

*  Tell  me  at  once,  I  say.' 

It  was  the  greater  strength  against  the  smaller, 
but  she  was  mastered  less  by  his  manner  than  by  her 
own  sense  of  the  unfairness  of  silence. 

*  I  looked  out  of  the  window,'  she  said  with  hesita- 
tion. *  I'll  tell  you  by  and  by.  I  must  go  indoors. 
I  have  had  no  breakfast.' 

By  a  sort  of  divination  his  conjecture  went  straight 
to  the  fact.  *  Nor  I,'  said  he  lightly.  *  Indeed,  I  rose 
late  to-day.  I  have  had  a  broken  night,  or  rather 
morning.  A  girl  of  the  village — I  don't  know  her 
name — came  and  rang  at  my  bell  as  soon  as  it  was 
light — between  four  and  five  I  should  think  it  was — 
perfectly  maddened  with  an  aching  tooth.  As  nobody 
heard  her  ring  she  threw  some  gravel  at  my  window, 
till  at  last  I  heard  her  and  slipped  on  my  dressing- 
gown  and  went  down.  The  poor  thing  had  come 
half-dressed  to  beg  me,  with  tears  in  her  eyes,  to  take 
out  her  tormentor  if  I  dragged  her  head  off.  Down 
she  sat  and  out  it  came ;  a  lovely  molar,  not  a  speck 
upon  it ;  and  off  she  went  with  it  in  her  handkerchief, 
much  contented,  though  it  would  have  done  good 
work  for  her  for  fifty  years  to  come.' 

It  was  all  so  plausible — so  completely  explained. 
Knowing  nothing  of  the  intimacy  established  in  the 

203 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

hay  field  on  old  Midsummer  Eve,  Grace  felt  that  her 
suspicions  were  unworthy  and  absurd,  and  with  the 
readiness  of  an  honest  heart  she  jumped  at  the  oppor- 
tunity of  honouring  his  word.  At  the  moment  of  her 
mental  libration  the  bushes  about  the  garden  had 
moved,  and  her  father  emerged  into  the  shady  glade. 

*  Well,  I  hope  it  is  made  up  ? '  he  said  cheerily. 

*  O  yes,'  said  Fitzpiers,  with  his  eyes  fixed  on 
Grace,  whose  eyes  were  shyly  bent  downwards. 

*  Now,'  said  her  father,  *  tell  me,  the  pair  of  ye, 
that  you  still  mean  to  take  one  another  for  good  and 
all ;  and  on  the  strength  o't  you  shall  have  another 
couple  of  hundred  paid  down.  I  swear  it  by  the 
name.' 

Fitzpiers  took  her  hand.  *  We  declare  it,  do  we 
not,  my  dear  Grace  ? '  said  he. 

Relieved  of  her  doubt,  somewhat  overawed,  and 
ever  anxious  to  please,  she  was  disposed  to  settle  the 
matter.  Yet,  woman-like,  she  would  not  relinquish 
her  opportunity  of  asking  a  concession  of  some  sort. 
*  If  our  wedding  can  be  at  church,  I  say  yes,'  she 
answered  in  a  measured  voice.     *  If  not,  I  say  no.' 

Fitzpiers  was  generous  in  his  turn.  *  It  shall  be 
so,'  he  rejoined  gracefully.  *  To  holy  church  we'll  go 
— and  much  good  may  it  do  us.' 

They  returned  through  the  bushes  indoors,  Grace 
walking  full  of  thought  between  the  other  two,  some- 
what comforted  both  by  Fitzpiers's  ingenious  explana- 
tion and  by  the  sense  that  she  was  not  to  be  deprived 
of  a  religious  ceremony.  *  So  let  it  be,*  she  said  to 
herself     '  Pray  God  it  is  for  the  best.' 

From  this  hour  there  was  no  serious  recalcitration 
on  her  part.  Fitzpiers  kept  himself  continually  near 
her,  dominating  any  rebellious  impulse,  and  shaping 
her  will  into  passive  concurrence  with  all  his  desires. 
Apart  from  his  lover-like  anxiety  to  possess  her  the 
few  golden  hundreds  of  the  timber-dealer,  ready  to 
hand,  formed  a  warm  background  to  Grace's  lovely 
face,  and  went  some  way  to  remove  his  uneasiness 

204 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

at  the  prospect  of  endangering  his  professional  and 
social  chances  by  an  alliance  with  the  family  of  a 
simple  countryman. 

The  interin^  closed  up  its  perspective  surely  and 
silently.  Whenever  Grace  had  any  doubts  of  her 
position  the  sense  of  contracting  time  was  like  a 
shortening  chamber :  at  other  moments  she  was  com- 
paratively blithe. 

Day  after  day  waxed  and  waned  ;  the  one  or  two 
woodmen  who  sawed,  shaped,  or  spokeshaved  on  her 
father's  premises  at  this  inactive  season  of  the  year, 
regularly  came  and  unlocked  the  doors  in  the  morning, 
locked  them  in  the  evening,  supped,  leant  over  their 
garden-gates  for  a  whiff  of  evening  air,  and  to  catch 
any  last  and  furthest  throb  of  news  from  the  outer 
world,  which  entered  and  expired  at  Little  Hintock 
like  the  exhausted  swell  of  a  wave  in  some  innermost 
cavern  of  some  innermost  creek  of  an  embayed  sea ; 
yet  no  news  interfered  with  the  nuptial  purpose  at 
their  neighbour's  house. 

The  sappy  green  twig-tips  of  the  season's  growth 
would  not,  she  thought,  be  appreciably  woodier  on 
the  day  she  became  a  wife,  so  near  was  the  time ; 
the  tints  of  the  foliage  would  hardly  have  changed. 
Everything  was  so  much  as  usual  that  no  itinerant 
stranger  would  have  supposed  a  woman's  fate  to  be 
hanging  in  the  balance  at  that  summer's  decline. 

But  there  were  preparations,  imaginable  enough 
by  those  who  had  special  knowledge.  In  the  remote 
and  fashionable  city  of  Exonbury  something  was 
growing  up  under  the  hands  of  several  persons  who 
had  never  seen  Grace  Melbury,  never  would  see  her, 
or  care  anything  about  her  at  all ;  though  their 
creation  had  such  interesting  relation  to  her  life  that 
it  would  enclose  her  very  heart  at  a  moment  when 
that  heart  would  beat,  if  not  with  more  emotional 
ardour,  at  least  with  more  emotional  turbulence  than 
at  any  previous  time. 

205 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

Why  did  Mrs.  Dollery's  van  on  its  return  from 
Sherton,  instead  of  passing  along  the  highway  to 
Abbot's  Cernel  direct,  turn  one  Saturday  night  into 
Little  Hintock  Lane,  and  never  pull  up  till  it  reached 
Mr.  Melbury's  gates  .f*  The  gilding  sheen  of  evening 
fell  upon  a  large  flat  box,  not  less  than  a  yard  square 
and  safely  tied  with  cord,  as  it  was  handed  out  from 
under  the  tilt  with  a  great  deal  of  care.  But  it  was 
not  heavy  for  its  size ;  Mrs.  Dollery  herself  carried 
it  into  the  house.  Tim  Tangs,  the  hollow-turner, 
Cawtree,  Suke  Damson,  and  others,  looked  knowing 
and  made  remarks  to  each  other  as  they  watched  its 
entrance.  Melbury  stood  at  the  door  of  the  timber- 
shed  in  the  attitude  of  a  man  to  whom  such  an  arrival 
was  a  trifling  domestic  detail  with  which  he  did  not 
condescend  to  be  concerned.  Yet  he  well  divined 
the  contents  of  that  box,  and  was  in  truth  all  the 
while  in  a  pleasant  exaltation  at  the  proof  that  thus 
far,  at  any  rate,  no  disappointment  had  supervened. 
While  Mrs.  Dollery  remained — which  was  rather  long, 
from  her  sense  of  the  importance  of  her  errand — 
he  went  into  the  outhouse ;  but  as  soon  as  she 
had  had  her  say,  been  paid,  and  had  rumbled  away, 
he  entered  the  dwelling,  to  find  there  what  he  knew 
he  should  find — his  wife  and  daughter  in  a  flutter 
of  excitement  over  the  wedding-gown,  just  arrived 
from  the  leading  dressmaker  of  Exonbury  city  afore- 
said. 

During  these  weeks  Giles  Winterborne  was  no- 
where to  be  seen  or  heard  of.  At  the  close  of  his 
tenure  in  Hintock  he  had  sold  some  of  his  furniture, 
packed  up  the  rest — a  few  pieces  endeared  by  associ- 
ations, or  necessary  to  his  occupation — in  the  house 
of  a  friendly  neighbour,  and  gone  away.  People  said 
that  a  certain  laxity  had  crept  into  his  life ;  that  he 
had  never  gone  near  a  church  latterly,  and  had  been 
sometimes  seen  on  Sundays  with  unblacked  boots, 
lying  on  his  elbow  under  a  tree,  with  a  cynical  gaze 
at  surrounding  objects.     He  was  likely  to  return  to 

206 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

Hintock  when  the  cider-making  season  came  round, 
his  apparatus  being  stored  there,  and  travel  with  his 
mill  and  press  from  village  to  village. 

The  narrow  interval  that  stood  before  the  day 
diminished  yet.  There  was  in  Grace's  mind  some- 
times a  certain  anticipative  satisfaction,  the  satisfaction 
of  feeling  that  she  would  be  the  heroine  of  an  hour ; 
moreover,  she  was  proud,  as  a  cultivated  woman,  to 
be  the  wife  of  a  cultivated  man.  It  was  an  oppor- 
tunity denied  very  frequently  to  young  women  in  her 
position,  nowadays  not  a  few ;  those  in  whom  parental 
discovery  of  the  value  of  education  has  implanted 
tastes  which  parental  circles  fail  to  gratify.  But  what 
an  attenuation  this  cold  pride  was  of  the  dream  of 
her  youth,  in  which  she  had  pictured  herself  walking 
in  state  towards  the  altar,  flushed  by  the  purple  light 
and  bloom  of  her  own  passion,  without  a  single  mis- 
giving as  to  the  sealing  of  the  bond,  and  fervently 
receiving  as  her  due 

*  The  homage  of  a  thousand  hearts ;  the  fond  deep  love  of  one.* 

Everything  had  been  clear  then,  in  imagination ;  now 
something  was  undefined.  She  had  little  carking 
anxieties ;  a  curious  fatefulness  seemed  to  rule  her, 
and  she  experienced  a  mournful  want  of  some  one  to 
confide  in. 

The  day  loomed  so  big  and  nigh  that  her  prophetic 
ear  could  in  fancy  catch  the  noise  of  it,  hear  the 
murmur  of  the  villagers  as  she  came  out  of  church, 
imagine  the  jangle  of  the  three  thin-toned  Hintock 
bells.  The  dialogues  seemed  to  grow  louder,  and 
the  ding-ding-dong  of  those  three  crazed  bells  more 
persistent.     She  awoke  :  the  morning  had  come. 

Five  hours  later  she  was  the  wife  of  Fitzpiers. 


XXV 

The  chief  hotel  at  Sherton  Abbas  was  the  *  Earl  of 
Wessex' — a  substantial  inn  of  Ham-hill  stone  with  a 
yawning  back  yard  into  which  vehicles  were  driven  by 
coachmen  to  stabling  of  wonderful  commodiousness. 
The  windows  to  the  street  were  mullioned  into  narrow 
lights,  and  only  commanded  a  view  of  the  opposite 
houses;  hence,  perhaps,  it  arose  that  the  best  and 
most  luxurious  private  sitting-room  that  the  inn  could 
afford  overlooked  the  lateral  parts  of  the  establish- 
ment, where  beyond  the  yard  were  to  be  seen 
gardens  and  orchards  now  bossed,  nay  encrusted, 
with  scarlet  and  gold  fruit,  stretching  to  infinite  dis- 
tance under  a  luminous  lavender  mist.  The  time  was 
early  autumn, 

r'^^  *  When  the  fair  apples,  red  as  evening  sky, 

^•^^Uj      .  Do  bend  the  tree  unto  the  fruitful  ground, 

^-IL,  When  juicy  pears,  and  berries  of  black  dye 

Do  dance  in  air,  and  call  the  eyes  around.* 

The  landscape  confronting  the  window  might  indeed 
have  been  part  of  the  identical  stretch  of  country 
which  the  '  marvellous  boy '  had  in  his  mind  when  he 
penned  those  lines. 

In  this  room  sat  she  who  had  been  the  maiden 
Grace  Melbury  till  the  finger  of  fate  touched  her  and 
turned  her  to  a  wife.  It  was  two  months  after  the 
wedding,  and  she  was  alone.  Fitzpiers  had  walked 
out  to  see  the  abbey  by  the  light  of  sunset,  but  she 
had  been  too  fatigued  to  accompany  him.     They  had 

208 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

reached  the  last  stage  of  a  long  eight-weeks'  tour,  and 
were  going  on  to  Little  Hintock  that  night. 

In  the  yard  between  Grace  and  the  orchards  there 
progressed  a  scene  natural  to  the  locality  at  this  time 
of  the  year.  An  apple-mill  and  press  had  been 
erected  on  the  spot,  to  which  some  men  were  bring- 
ing fruit  from  divers  points  in  mawn-baskets,  while 
others  were  grinding  them,  and  others  wringing  down 
the  pomace,  whose  sweet  juice  gushed  forth  into  tubs 
and  pails.  The  superintendent  of  these  proceedings, 
to  whom  the  others  spoke  as  master,  was  a  young 
yeoman  of  prepossessing  manner  and  aspect,  whose 
form  she  recognized  in  a  moment.  He  had  hung  his 
coat  to  a  nail  of  the  outhouse  wall,  and  wore  his  shirt- 
sleeves rolled  up  beyond  his  elbows,  to  keep  them 
unstained  while  he  rammed  the  pomace  into  the  bags 
of  horsehair.  Fragments  of  apple-rind  had  alighted 
upon  the  brim  of  his  hat — probably  from  the  bursting 
of  a  bag — while  brown  pips  of  the  same  fruit  were 
sticking  among  the  down  upon  his  fine  round  arms, 
and  in  his  beard. 

She  realized  in  a  moment  how  he  had  come  there. 
Down  in  the  heart  of  the  apple-country  nearly  every 
farmer  kept  a  cider-making  apparatus  and  wring-house 
for  his  own  use,  building  up  the  pomace  in  great  straw 
*  cheeses,'  as  they  were  called  ;  but  here,  on  the  margin 
of  Pomona's  plain,  was  a  debatable  land  neither 
orchard  nor  sylvan  exclusively,  where  the  apple- 
produce  was  hardly  sufficient  to  warrant  each  pro- 
prietor in  keeping  a  mill  of  his  own.  This  was  the 
field  of  the  travelling  cider-maker.  His  press  and 
mill  were  fixed  to  wheels  instead  of  being  set  up  in  a 
cider-house ;  and  with  a  couple  of  horses,  buckets, 
tubs,  strainers,  and  an  assistant  or  two,  he  wandered 
from  place  to  place,  deriving  very  satisfactory  returns 
for  his  trouble  in  such  a  prolific  season  as  the 
present. 

The  outskirts  of  the  town  were  just  now  abounding 
with  apple-gatherings.     They  stood  in  the  yards  in 

209 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

carts,  baskets,  and  loose  heaps ;  and  the  blue  stagnant 
air  of  autumn  which  hung  over  everything  was  heavy 
with  a  sweet  cidery  smell.  Cakes  of  pomace  lay 
against  the  walls  in  the  yellow  sun,  where  they  were 
drying  to  be  used  as  fuel.  Yet  it  was  not  the  great 
make  of  the  year  as  yet ;  before  the  standard  crop 
came  in  there  accumulated,  in  abundant  times  like 
this,  a  large  superfluity  of  early  apples,  and  windfalls 
from  the  trees  of  later  harvest,  which  would  not  keep 
long.  Thus  in  the  baskets,  and  quivering  in  the 
hopper  of  the  mill,  she  saw  specimens  of  mixed  dates, 
including  the  mellow  countenances  of  streaked-jacks, 
codlins,  costards,  stubbards,  ratheripes,  and  other  well- 
known  friends  of  her  ravenous  youth. 

Grace  watched  the  head  man  with  interest.  The 
slightest  sigh  escaped  her.  Perhaps  she  thought  of 
the  day — not  so  far  distant — when  that  friend  of  her 
childhood  had  met  her  by  her  father  s  arrangement  in 
this  same  town,  warm  with  hope,  though  diffident,  and 
trusting  in  a  promise  rather  implied  ^ihan  given.  Or 
she  might  have  thought  of  days  earlier  yet — days 
of  childhood — when  her  mouth  was  somewhat  more 
ready  to  receive  a  kiss  from  his  than  was  his  to 
bestow  one.  However,  all  that  was  over.  She  had 
felt  superior  to  him  then,  and  she  felt  superior  to  him 
now. 

She  wondered  why  he  never  looked  towards  her 
open  window.  She  did  not  know  that  in  the  slight 
commotion  caused  by  their  arrival  at  the  inn  that 
afternoon  Winterborne  had  caught  sight  of  her 
through  the  archway,  had  turned  red,  and  was  con- 
tinuing his  work  with  more  concentrated  attention  on 
the  very  account  of  his  discovery.  Robert  Creedle, 
too,  who  travelled  with  Giles,  had  been  incidentally 
informed  by  the  ostler  that  Dr.  Fitzpiers  and  his 
young  wife  were  in  the  hotel ;  after  which  news 
Creedle  kept  shaking  his  head  and  saying  to  himself, 
'  Ah ! '  very  audibly,  between  his  thrusts  at  the  screw 
of  the  cider-press. 

210 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

*Why  the  deuce  do  you  sigh  like  that,  Robert?* 
asked  Winterborne  at  last. 

•  Ah,  maister,  —  'tis  my  thoughts  —  *tis  my 
thoughts !  .  .  .  Yes,  ye've  lost  a  hundred  load  o' 
timber  well  seasoned ;  ye've  lost  five  hundred  pound 
in  good  money ;  ye've  lost  the  stone-windered  house 
that's  big  enough  to  hold  a  dozen  families ;  ye've  lost 
your  share  of  half-a-dozen  good  waggons  and  their 
horses ; — all  lost ! — through  your  letting  slip  she  that 
was  once  yer  own  ! ' 

*  Good  God,  Creedle  !  you'll  drive  me  mad  ! '  said 
Giles  sternly.     '  Don't  speak  of  that  any  more  ! ' 

Thus  the  subject  had  ended  in  the  yard.  Mean- 
while the  passive  cause  of  all  this  loss  still  regarded 
the  scene.  She  was  beautifully  dressed ;  she  was 
seated  in  the  most  comfortable  room  that  the  inn 
afforded ;  her  long  journey  had  been  full  of  variety, 
and  almost  luxuriously  performed,  for  Fitzpiers  did 
not  study  economy  where  pleasure  was  in  question. 
Hence  it  perhaps  arose  that  Giles  and  all  his  belong- 
ings seemed  sorry  and  common  to  her  for  the  moment 
— moving  in  a  groove  so  far  removed  from  her  own  of 
late  that  she  could  scarcely  believe  she  had  ever 
found  congruity  therein. 

'  No — I  could  never  have  married  him  !*  she  said, 
gently  shaking  her  head.  '  Dear  father  was  right.  It 
would  have  been  too  rough  a  life  for  me.'  And  she 
looked  at  the  rings  of  sapphire  and  opal  upon  her 
white  and  slender  fingers  that  had  been  gifts  from 
Fitzpiers. 

Seeing  that  Giles  still  kept  his  back  turned,  and 
with  a  little  of  the  above-described  pride  of  life — 
easily  to  be  understood,  possibly  excused,  in  a  young 
inexperienced  woman  who  thought  she  had  married 
well — she  opened  the  window  wider  and  cried  with  a 
smile  on  her  lips,  *  Mr.  Winterborne  ! ' 

He  appeared  to  take  no  heed,  and  she  said  a 
second  time,  *  Mr.  Winterborne  !  * 

Even  now  he  seemed  not  to  hear,  though  a  person 

211 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

close  enough  to  him  to  see  the  expression  of  his  face 
might  have  doubted  it ;  and  she  said  a  third  time,  with 
a  timid  loudness,  '  Mr.  Winterborne !  What,  have 
you  forgotten  my  voice  ? '  She  remained  with  her  Hps 
parted  in  a  welcoming  smile. 

He  turned  without  surprise  and  came  deliberately 
towards  the  window. 

*  Why  do  you  call  me  ? '  he  said,  with  a  sternness 
that  took  her  completely  unawares,  his  face  being 
now  pale.  '  Is  it  not  enough  that  you  see  me  here 
moiling  and  muddling  for  my  daily  bread  while  you 
are  sitting  there  in  your  success,  that  you  can't 
refrain  from  opening  old  wounds  by  calling  out  my 
name  ? ' 

She  flushed,  and  was  struck  dumb  for  some 
moments ;  but  she  forgave  his  unreasoning  anger, 
knowing  so  well  in  what  it  had  its  root. 

*  I  am  sorry  I  offended  you  by  speaking,  Giles,' 
she  replied.  *  Believe  me,  I  did  not  intend  to  do  that. 
I  could  hardly  sit  here  so  near  you  without  a  word  of 
recognition.' 

Winterborne's  heart  had  swollen  big  and  his  eyes 
grown  moist  by  this  time,  so  much  had  the  gentle 
answer  of  that  familiar  voice  moved  him.  He  assured 
her  hurriedly,  and  without  looking  at  her,  that  he  was 
not  angry.  He  then  managed  to  ask  her,  in  a  clumsy 
constrained  way,  if  she  had  had  a  pleasant  journey, 
and  seen  many  interesting  sights.  She  spoke  of  a 
few  places  that  she  had  visited,  and  so  the  time  passed 
till  he  withdrew  to  take  his  place  at  one  of  the  levers 
which  pulled  round  the  screw. 

^  *•  Forgotten  her  voice !  Indeed,  he  had  not  for- 
gotten her  voice,  as  his  bitterness  showed.  But 
though  in  the  heat  of  the  moment  he  had  reproached 
her  keenly,  his  second  mood  was  a  far  more  tender 
one — that  which  could  regard  her  renunciation  of 
such  as  he  as  her  glory  and  her  privilege,  his  own 
fidelity  notwithstanding.  He  could  have  declared 
with  a  contemporary  poet — 

212 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

*  If  I  forget, 
The  salt  creek  may  forget  the  ocean ; 

If  I  forget 
The  heart  whence  flowed  my  heart's  bright  motion, 
May  I  sink  meanlier  than  the  worst, 
Abandoned,  outcast,  crushed,  accurst,— 

If  I  forget. 

Though  you  forget, 
No  word  of  mine  shall  mar  your  pleasure ;' 

Though  you  forget, — 
You  filled  my  barren  life  with  treasure  ; 
You  may  withdraw  the  gift  you  gave, 
You  still  are  queen,  I  still  am  slave. 

Though  you  forget.' 

She  had  tears  in  her  eyes  at  the  thought  that  she 
could  not  remind  him  of  what  he  ought  to  have 
remembered ;  that  not  herself  but  the  pressure  of 
events  had  dissipated  the  dreams  of  their  early- 
youth. 

Grace  was  thus  unexpectedly  worsted  in  her 
encounter  with  her  old  friend.  She  had  opened  the 
window  with  a  faint  sense  of  triumph,  but  he  had 
turned  it  into  sadness ;  she  did  not  quite  comprehend 
the  reason  why.  In  truth  it  was  because  she  was  not 
cruel  enough  in  her  cruelty.  If  you  have  to  use  the 
knife,  use  it,  say  the  great  surgeons ;  and  for  her 
own  peace  Grace  should  have  handled  Winterborne 
thoroughly  or  not  at  all.  As  it  was,  on  closing  the 
window  an  indescribable  —  some  might  have  said 
dangerous — pity  quavered  in  her  bosom  for  him. 

Presently  her  husband  entered  the  room  and  told 
her  what  a  wonderful  sunset  there  was  to  be  seen. 

*  I  have  not  noticed  it.  But  I  have  seen  some- 
body out  there  that  we  know,'  she  replied,  looking 
into  the  court. 

Fitzpiers  followed  the  direction  of  her  eyes  and 
said  he  did  not  recognize  anybody. 

*  Why,  Mr.  Winterborne — there  he  is  cider- 
making.  He  combines  that  with  his  other  business, 
you  know.' 

213 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

•O  —  that  fellow,*  said  Fitzpiers,  his  curiosity 
becoming  extinct. 

She,  reproachfully :  *  What,  call  Mr.  Winterborne 
a  fellow,  Edred !  It  is  true  I  was  just  saying  to 
myself  that  I  never  could  have  married  him ;  but  I 
have  much  regard  for  him,  and  always  shall' 

*  Well,  do  by  all  means,  my  dear  one.  I  dare 
say  I  am  inhuman,  and  supercilious,  and  con- 
temptibly proud  of  my  poor  old  ramshackle  family; 
but  I  do  honestly  confess  to  you  that  I  feel  as  if  I 
belonged  to  a  different  species  from  the  people  who 
are  working  in  that  yard.' 

'And  from  me,  too,  then.  For  my  blood  is  no 
better  than  theirs.' 

He  looked  at  her  with  a  droll  sort  of  awakening. 
It  was,  indeed,  a  startling  anpmaly  that  this  woman 
of  the  tribe  without  should  be*stahding  there  beside 
him  as  his  wife,  if  his  sentiments  were  as  he  had  said. 
In  their  travels  together  she  had  ranged  so  unerringly 
at  his  level  in  ideas,  tastes,  and  habits,  that  he  had 
almost  forgotten  how  his  heart  had  played  havoc  with 
his  ambition  in  taking  her  to  him. 

*  Ah,  you — you  are  refined  and  educated  into  some- 
thing quite  different,'  he  said  self-assuringly. 

*  I  don't  quite  like  to  think  that,'  she  murmured 
with  regret.  *  And  I  think  you  under-estimate  Giles 
Winterborne.  Remember  I  was  brought  up  with  him 
till  I  was  sent  away  to  school,  so  I  cannot  be  radically 
different.  At  any  rate  I  don't  feel  so.  That  is  no 
doubt  my  fault,  and  a  great  blemish  in  me.  But  I 
hope  you  will  put  up  with  it,  Edred.' 

Fitzpiers  said  that  he  would  endeavour  to  do  so, 
and  as  it  was  now  getting  on  for  dusk  they  prepared 
to  perform  the  last  stage  of  their  journey,  so  as  to 
arrive  at  Hintock  before  it  grew  very  late. 

In  less  than  half-an-hour  they  started,  the  cider- 
makers  in  the  yard  having  ceased  their  labours  and 
gone  away,  so  that  the  only  sounds  audible  there 
now  were  the  trickling  of  the  juice  from  the  tightly 

214 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

screwed  press,  and  the  buzz  of  a  single  wasp,  which 
had  drunk  itself  so  tipsy  that  it  was  unconscious  oJ 
nightfall. 

Grace  was  very  cheerful  at  the  thought  of  being 
soon  in  her  sylvan  home  ;  but  Fitzpiers  sat  beside  her 
almost  silent.  An  indescribable  oppressiveness  had 
overtaken  him  with  the  near  approach  of  the  journey's 
end  and  the  realities  of  life  that  lay  there.  It  was 
two  months  since  he  married  her. 

*  You  don't  say  a  word,  Edred,'  she  observed. 
*  Aren't  you  glad  to  get  back  ?     I  am.* 

*  You  have  friends  here.     I  have  none.' 
'  But  my  friends  are  yours.' 

*  O  yes — in  that  sense.' 

The  conversation  languished,  and  they  drew  near 
the  end  of  Hintock  Lane.  It  had  been  decided 
that  they  should,  at  least  for  a  time,  take  up  their 
abode  in  her  father's  roomy  house,  one  wing  of  which 
was  quite  at  their  service,  being  almost  disused  by 
the  Melburys.  Workmen  had  been  painting,  papering, 
and  whitewashing  this  set  of  rooms  in  the  wedded 
pair's  absence ;  and  so  scrupulous  had  been  the 
timber-dealer  that  there  should  occur  no  hitch  or  dis- 
appointment on  their  arrival  that  not  the  smallest 
detail  remained  undone.  To  make  it  all  complete  a 
ground-floor  room  had  been  fitted  up  as  a  surgery, 
with  an  independent  outer  door,  to  which  Fitzpiers's 
brass  plate  was  screwed — for  mere  ornament,  such  a 
sign  being  quite  superfluous  where  everybody  knew 
the  latitude  and  longitude  of  his  neighbours  for  miles 
round. 

Melbury  and  his  wife  welcomed  the  twain  with 
affection,  and  all  the  house  showed  them  deference/ 
They  went  up  to  explore  their  rooms,  that  opened 
from  a  passage  on  the  left  hand  of  the  staircase,  the 
entrance  to  which  could  be  shut  off  on  the  landing 
by  a  door  that  Melbury  had  hung  for  the  purpose. 
A  friendly  fire  was  burning  in  the  grate  although  it 
was   not   cold.      Fitzpiers  said  U  was  too  soon  for 

215 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

any  sort  of  meal,  they  having  dined  but  shortly 
before  leaving  Sherton  Abbas ;  he  would  walk  across 
to  his  old  lodging  to  learn  how  his  deputy  had  got  on 
in  his  absence. 

In  leaving  Melbury's  door  he  looked  back  at  the 
house.  There  was  economy  in  living  under  that  roof 
— and  economy  was  desirable ;  but  in  some  way  he 
was  dissatisfied  with  the  arrangement ;  it  immersed 
him  so  deeply  in  son-in-lawship  to  Melbury.  He 
went  on  to  his  former  residence ;  his  locum  tenens  was 
out,  and  Fitzpicrs  fell  into  conversation  with  his  old 
landlady. 

*  Well,  Mrs.  Cox,  what's  the  best  news  ?  '  he  asked 
of  her  with  cheery  weariness. 

She  was  a  little  soured  at  losing  by  his  marriage 
so  profitable  a  tenant  as  the  surgeon  had  proved  to  be 
during  his  residence  under  her  roof;  and  the  more  so 
in  there  being  hardly  the  remotest  chance  of  her 
getting  such  another  settler  in  the  Hintock  solitudes. 

*  'Tis  what  I  don't  wish  to  repeat,  sir ;  least  of  all  to 
you,'  she  mumbled. 

*  Never  mind  me,  Mrs.  Cox  ;  go  ahead.' 

*  It  is  what  people  say  about  your  hasty  marrying, 
Dr.  Fitzpiers.  Whereas  they  won't  believe  you  know 
such  clever  doctrines  in  physic  as  they  once  supposed 
of  'ee,  seeing  as  you  could  marry  into  Mr.  Melbury's 
family,  which  is  only  Hintock-born  such  as  I  b6 
meself.' 

*  They  are  kindly  welcome  to  their  opinion,*  said 
Fitzpiers,  not  allowing  himself  to  recognize  that  he 
winced.     *  Anything  else  t ' 

*  Yes ;  shes  come  home  at  last.* 

*  Who's  she  ? ' 

*  Mrs.  Charmond.* 

*  O  indeed,'  said  Fitzpiers,  with  but  slight  interest, 

*  I've  never  seen  her.' 

*  She  has  seen  you,  sir,  whether  or  no.* 
'  Never.' 

*  Yes.     She  saw  you  in  some  hotel  or  street  for  a 

ai6 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

minute  or  two  whilst  you  were  away  travelling,  and 
accidentally  heard  your  name  ;  and  when  she  made 
some  remark  about  you,  Miss  Ellis — that's  her  maid 
— told  her  you  was  on  your  wedding-tour  with  Mr. 
Melbiiry  s  daughter ;  and  she  said,  *'  He  ought  to 
have  done  better  than  that.  I  fear  he  has  spoilt  his 
chances,"  she  says.* 

Fitzpiers  did  not  talk  much  longer  to  this  cheering 
housewife,  and  walked  home  with  no  very  brisk  step. 
He  entered  the  door  quietly,  and  went  straight  up- 
stairs to  the  drawing-room  extemporized  for  their  use 
by  Melbury  in  his  and  his  bride's  absence,  expecting 
to  find  her  there  as  he  had  left  her. 

The  fire  was  burning  still  but  there  were  no 
lights ;  he  looked  into  the  next  apartment  fitted  up 
as  a  dining-room,  but  no  supper  was  laid.  He  went 
to  the  top  of  the  stairs  and  heard  a  chorus  of  voices 
in  the  timber-merchant's  parlour  below,  Grace's  being 
occasionally  intermingled. 

Descending,  and  looking  into  the  room  from  the 
doorway,  he  found  quite  a  large  gathering  of  neigh- 
bours and  other  acquaintances,  praising  and  congratu- 
lating Mrs.  Fitzpiers  on  her  return,  among  them  being 
the  dairyman.  Farmer  Cawtree,  and  the  relieving 
officer  from  Great  Hintock ;  also  the  road-contractor, 
the  master-tanner,  the  exciseman,  and  some  others 
with  their  wives.  Grace — girl  that  she  was — had 
quite  forgotten  her  new  dignity  and  her  husband's  ; 
she  was  in  the  midst  of  them,  blushing  and  receiv- 
ing their  compliments  with  all  the  pleasures  of  old 
comradeship. 

Fitzpiers  experienced  a  profound  distaste  for  the 
situation.  Melbury  was  nowhere  in  the  room,  but 
Melbury's  wife,  perceiving  the  doctor,  came  to  him. 

*  We  thought,  Grace  and  I,'  she  said,  '  that  as  they 
have  called,  hearing  you  were  come,  we  could  do  no 
less  than  ask  them  to  supper  ;  and  then  Grace  pro- 
posed that  we  should  all  sup  together  as  it  is  the  first 
night  of  your  return.' 

217 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

By  this  time  Grace  had  come  round  to  him.  *  Is 
it  not  good  of  them  to  welcome  me  so  warmly  ?  * 
she  exclaimed  with  tears  of  friendship  in  her  eyes. 
*  After  so  much  good  feeling  I  could  not  think  of  our 
shutting  ourselves  up  away  from  them  in  our  own 
dining-room.' 

*  Certainly  not — certainly  not,'  said  Fitzpiers.  And 
he  entered  the  room  with  the  heroic  smile  of  a 
martyr. 

As  soon  as  they  sat  down  to  table  Melbury  came 
in,  and  seemed  to  see  at  once  that  Fitzpiers  would 
much  rather  have  received  no  such  demonstrative 
reception.  He  thereupon  privately  chid  his  wife  for 
her  forwardness  in  the  matter.  Mrs.  Melbury 
declared  that  it  was  as  much  Grace's  doing  as  hers, 
after  which  there  was  no  more  to  be  said  by  that 
young  woman's  tender  father. 

By  this  time  Fitzpiers  was  making  the  best  of  his 
position  among  the  wide-elbowed  and  genial  company 
who  sat  eating  and  drinking,  laughing  and  joking 
around  him  ;  and,  getting  warmed  himself  by  the  good 
cheer,  he  was  obliged  to  admit  that,  after  all,  the 
supper  was  not  the  least  enjoyable  he  had  ever 
known. 

At  times,  however,  the  words  about  his  having 
spoiled  his  opportunities,  repeated  to  him  as  coming 
from  Mrs.  Charmond,  haunted  him  like  a  hand- 
writing on  the  wall.  Then  his  manner  would  become 
suddenly  abstracted.  At  one  moment  he  would 
mentally  put  an  indignant  query  why  Mrs.  Char- 
mond or  any  other  woman  should  make  it  her  business 
to  have  opinions  about  his  opportunities  :  at  another 
he  thought  that  he  could  hardly  be  angry  with  her  for 
taking  an  interest  in  the  doctor  of  her  own  parish. 
Then  he  would  drink  a  glass  of  grog  and  so  get  rid  of 
the  misgiving. 

These  hitches  and  quaffings  were  soon  perceived 
by  Grace  as  well  as  by  her  father  ;  and  hence  both 
of  them  were  much  relieved  when  the  first  of  the 

218 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

guests  to  discover  that  the  hour  was  growing  late 
rose  and  declared  that  he  must  think  of  moving 
homewards.  At  the  words  Melbury  rose  as  alertly 
as  if  lifted  by  a  spring ;  and  in  ten  minutes  they 
were  gone. 

'  Now,  Grace,'  said  her  husband  as  soon  as  he 
found  himself  alone  with  her  in  their  private  apart- 
ments, *  we've  had  a  very  pleasant  evening,  and 
everybody  has  been  very  kind.  But  we  must  come 
to  an  understanding  about  our  way  of  living  here. 
If  we  continue  in  these  rooms  there  must  be  no 
mixing  in  with  your  people  below.  I  can't  stand  it, 
and  that's  the  truth.' 

She  had  been  sadly  surprised  at  the  suddenness 
of  his  distaste  for  those  old-fashioned  woodland  forms 
of  life  which  in  his  courtship  he  had  professed  to 
regard  with  so  much  interest.  But  she  assented  in 
a  moment. 

*  We  must  be  simply  your  father's  tenants,'  he 
continued,  *  and  our  goings  and  comings  must  be  as 
independent  as  if  we  lived  elsewhere.* 

'  Certainly,  Edred — I  quite  see  that  it  must  be  so.* 

*  But  you  joined  in  with  all  those  people  in  my 
absence,  without  knowing  whether  I  should  approve 
or  disapprove.  When  I  came  I  couldn't  help  myself 
at  all.' 

She,  sighing :  *  Yes — I  see  I  ought  to  have 
waited ;  though  they  came  unexpectedly,  and  I 
thought  I  had  acted  for  the  best.* 

Thus  the  discussion  ended,  and  the  next  day 
Fitzpiers  went  on  his  old  rounds  as  usual.  But  it 
was  easy  for  so  supersubtle  an  eye  as  his  to  discern, 
or  to  think  he  discerned,  that  he  was  no  longer 
regarded  as  an  extrinsic,  unfathomed  gentleman  of 
limitless  potentiality,  scientific  and  social ;  but  as 
Mr.  Melbury's  compeer,  and  therefore  in  a  degree 
only  one  of  themselves.  The  Hintock  woodlanders 
held  with  all  the  strength  of  inherited  conviction  to 
the  aristocratic  principle,   and  as  soon   as   they  had 

219 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

discovered  that  Fitzpiers  was  one  of  the  old  Oakbury 
Fitzpierses  they  had  accorded  to  him  for  nothing  a 
touching  of  hat-brims,  promptness  of  service,  and 
deference  of  approach,  which  Melbury  had  to  do 
without  though  he  paid  for  it  over  and  over.  But 
now,  having  proved  a  traitor  to  his  own  cause  by  this 
marriage,  Fitzpiers  was  believed  in  no  more  as  a 
superior  hedged  by  his  own  divinity ;  while  as  doctor 
he  began  to  be  rated  no  higher  than  old  Jones,  whom 
they  had  so  long  despised. 

His  few  patients  seemed  in  his  two  months' 
absence  to  have  dwindled  considerably  in  number, 
and  no  sooner  had  he  returned  than  there  came  to 
him  from  the  Board  of  Guardians  a  complaint  that  a 
pauper  had  been  neglected  by  his  substitute.  In  a 
fit  of  pride  Fitzpiers  resigned  his  appointment  as  one 
of  the  surgeons  to  the  Union,  which  had  been  the 
nucleus  of  his  practice  here. 

At  the  end  of  a  fortnight  he  came  indoors  one 
evening  to  Grace  more  briskly  than  usual.  *  They 
have  written  to  me  again  about  that  practice  in  Bud- 
mouth  that  I  once  negotiated  for,'  he  said  to  her. 
*  The  premium  asked  is  eight  hundred  pounds,  and 
I  think  that  between  your  father  and  myself  it  ought 
to  be  raised.  Then  we  can  get  away  from  this  place 
for  ever.' 

The  question  had  been  mooted  between  them 
before,  and  she  was  not  unprepared  to  consider  it. 
They  had  not  proceeded  far  with  the  discussion  when 
a  knock  came  to  the  door,  and  in  a  minute  Grammer 
ran  up  to  say  that  a  message  had  arrived  from 
Hintock  House  requesting  Dr.  Fitzpiers  to  attend 
there  at  once.  Mrs.  Charmond  had  met  with  a  slight 
accident  through  the  overturning  of  her  carriage. 

*  This  is  something,  anyhow,'  said  Fitzpiers,  rising 
with  an  interest  which  he  could  not  have  defined.  *  I 
have  had  a  presentiment  that  this  mysterious  woman 
and  I  were  to  be  better  acquainted.' 

The  latter  words  were  murmured  to  himself  alone. 

220 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

•  Good-night,'  said  Grace  as  soon  as  he  was  ready. 
•  I  shall  be  asleep  probably  when  you  return.' 

'  Good-night,'  he  replied  inattentively,  and  went 
downstairs.  It  was  the  first  time  since  their  marriage 
that  he  had  left  her  without  a  kiss. 


XXVI 

WiNTERBORNE  had  given  up  his  house.  On  this 
account  his  face  was  seen  but  fitfully  in  Hintock ; 
and  he  would  probably  have  disappeared  from  the 
place  altogether  but  for  his  slight  business  connection 
with  Melbury,  on  whose  premises  Giles  kept  his  cider- 
making  apparatus  now  that  he  had  no  place  of  his  own 
to  stow  it  in. 

Coming  here  one  afternoon  on  his  way  to  a  hut 
beyond  the  wood,  where  he  now  slept,  he  noticed 
that  the  familiar  brown-thatched  pinion  of  his  paternal 
roof  had  vanished  from  its  site,  and  that  the  walls 
were  levelled,  according  to  the  landlords'  principle  at 
this  date  of  getting  rid  of  cottages  whenever  possible. 
In  present  circumstances  he  had  a  feeling  for  the  spot 
that  might  have  been  called  morbid,  and  when  he  had 
supped  in  the  hut  aforesaid  he  made  use  of  the  spare 
hour  before  bedtime  to  return  to  Little  Hintock  in 
the  twilight,  and  ramble  over  the  patch  of  ground  on 
which  he  had  first  seen  the  day. 

He  repeated  this  evening  visit  on  several  like 
occasions.  Even  in  the  gloom  he  could  trace  where 
the  different  rooms  had  stood ;  could  mark  the  shape 
of  the  kitchen  chimney-corner  in  which  he  had  roasted 
apples  and  potatoes  in  his  boyhood,  cast  his  bullets, 
and  burnt  his  initials  on  articles  that  did  and  did  not 
belong  to  him.  The  apple-trees  still  remained  to 
show  where  the  garden  had  been,  the  oldest  of  them 
even  now  retaining  the  crippled  slant  to  north-east 
given  them  by  the  great   November  gale  of   1824, 

222 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

which  carried  a  brig  bodily  over  the  Chesil  Bank. 
They  were  at  present  bent  to  still  greater  obliquity 
by  the  heaviness  of  their  produce.  Apples  bobbed 
against  his  head,  and  in  the  grass  beneath  he 
crunched  scores  of  them  as  he  walked.  There  was 
nobody  to  gather  them  now. 

It  was  on  the  evening  under  notice  that,  half- 
sitting,  half- leaning  against  one  of  these  inclined 
trunks,  Winterborne  became  lost  in  his  thoughts  as 
usual,  till  one  little  star  after  another  had  taken  up  a 
position  in  the  piece  of  sky  which  now  confronted 
him  where  his  walls  and  chimneys  had  formerly  raised 
their  outlines.  The  house  had  jutted  awkwardly  into 
the  road  and  the  opening  caused  by  its  absence  was 
very  distinct. 

In  the  silence  the  trot  of  horses  and  the  spin  of 
carriage  wheels  became  audible ;  the  vehicle  soon 
shaped  itself  against  the  blank  sky,  bearing  down 
upon  him  with  the  bend  in  the  lane  which  here 
occurred,  and  of  which  the  house  had  been  the  cause. 
He  could  discern  the  figure  of  a  woman  high  up  on 
the  driving-seat  of  a  phaeton,  a  groom  being  just 
visible  behind. 

Presently  there  was  a  slight  scrape,  then  a  scream. 
Winterborne  went  across  to  the  spot,  and  found  the 
phaeton  half  overturned,  its  driver  sitting  on  the  heap 
of  rubbish  which  had  once  been  his  dwelling,  and  the 
man  seizing  the  horses'  heads.  The  equipage  was 
Mrs.  Charmond's  and  the  unseated  charioteer  that 
lady  herself. 

To  his  inquiry  if  she  were  hurt  she  made  some 
incoherent  reply  to  the  effect  that  she  did  not  know. 
The  damage  in  other  respects  was  little  or  none ;  the 
phaeton  was  righted,  Mrs.  Charmond  placed  in  it,  and 
the  reins  given  to  the  servant.  It  appeared  that  she 
had  been  deceived  by  the  removal  of  the  house, 
imagining  the  gap  caused  by  the  demolition  to  be  the 
opening  of  the  road,  so  that  she  turned  in  upon  the 
ruins  instead  of  at  the  bend,  a  few  yards  further  on. 

223 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

*  Drive  home — drive  home  ! '  she  cried  impatiently  ; 
and  they  started  on  their  way. 

They  had  not  however  gone  many  paces  when, 
the  air  being  still,  Winterborne  heard  her  say,  *  Stop  ; 
tell  that  man  to  call  the  doctor — Mr.  Fitzpiers — and 
send  him  on  to  the  House.  I  find  I  am  hurt  more 
seriously  than  I  thought.' 

The  seriousness  seemed  ludicrous  to  Winterborne  ; 
but  he  took  the  message  from  the  groom,  and  pro- 
ceeded to  the  doctor's  at  once.  Having  delivered  it 
he  stepped  back  into  the  darkness,  and  waited  till  he 
had  seen  Fitzpiers  leave  the  door.  He  stood  for  a 
few  minutes  looking  at  the  window  which,  by  its 
light,  revealed  the  room  where  Grace  was  sitting; 
and  went  away  under  the  gloomy  trees. 

Fitzpiers  duly  arrived  at  Hintock  House,  whose 
doors  he  now  saw  open  for  the  first  time.  Contrary 
to  his  expectation  there  was  visible  no  sign  of  that 
confusion  or  alarm  which  a  grave  accident  to  the 
mistress  of  the  abode  would  have  occasioned.  He 
was  shown  into  a  room  at  the  top  of  the  staircase, 
cosily  and  femininely  draped,  where  by  the  light  of 
the  shaded  lamp  he  saw  a  woman  of  elegant  figure 
reclining  upon  a  couch  in  such  a  position  as  not  to 
disturb  a  pile  of  magnificent  hair  on  the  crown  of 
her  head.  A  deep  purple  dressing-gown  formed 
an  admirable  foil  to  the  peculiarly  rich  brown 
of  her  hair-plaits ;  her  left  arm,  which  was  naked 
nearly  up  to  the  shoulder,  was  thrown  upwards, 
and  between  the  fingers  of  her  right  hand  she 
held  a  cigarette,  while  she  idly  breathed  from  her 
delicately  curled  lips  a  thin  stream  of  smoke  towards 
the  ceiling. 

The  doctor*  s  first  feeling  was  a  sense  of  his 
exaggerated  prevision  in  having  brought  appliances 
for  a  serious  case  ;  the  next,  something  more  curious. 
While  the  scene  and  the  moment  were  new  to  him 
and  unanticipated,  the  sentiment  and  essence  of  the 

224 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

moment  were  indescribably  familiar.  What  could  be 
the  cause  of  it  ?     Probably  a  dream. 

Mrs.  Charmond  did  not  move  more  than  to  raise 
her  eyes  to  him,  and  he  came  and  stood  by  her.  She 
glanced  up  at  his  face  across  her  brows  and  forehead, 
and  then  he  observed  a  blush  creep  slowly  over  her 
decidedly  handsome  cheeks.  Her  eyes,  which  had 
lingered  upon  him  with  an  inquiring,  conscious  ex- 
pression, were  hastily  withdrawn,  and  she  mechanically 
applied  the  cigarette  again  to  her  lips. 

For  a  moment  he  forgot  his  errand,  till  suddenly 
arousing  himself  he  addressed  her,  formally  condoled 
with  her,  and  made  the  usual  professional  inquiries 
about  what  had  happened  to  her,  and  where  she  was 
hurt. 

*  That's  what  I  want  you  to  tell  me,'  she  murmured 
in  tones  of  indefinable  reserve.  *  I  quite  believe  in 
you,  for  I  know  you  are  very  accomplished,  because 
you  study  so  hard.* 

'  I'll  do  my  best  to  justify  your  good  opinion,' 
said  the  young  man,  bowing.  *  And  none  the  less 
that  I  am  happy  to  find  the  accident  has  not  been 
serious.* 

*  I  am  very  much  shaken,'  she  said. 

*  O  yes,'  he  replied ;  and  completed  his  examina- 
tion, which  convinced  him  that  there  was  really 
nothing  the  matter  with  her,  and  more  than  ever 
puzzled  him  as  to  why  he  had  been  summoned,  since 
she  did  not  appear  to  be  a  timid  woman.  *  You  must 
rest  a  while  ;  and  I'll  send  something,'  he  said. 

*0,  I  forgot,'  she  returned.  'Look  here.'  And 
she  showed  him  a  little  scrape  on  her  arm — the  full 
round  arm  that  was  exposed.  *  Put  some  court-plaster 
on  that,  please.* 

He  obeyed.  *  And  now,  doctor,'  she  said,  *  before 
you  go  I  want  to  put  a  question  to  you.  Sit  round 
there  in  front  of  me,  on  that  low  chair,  and  bring  the 
candles,  or  one,  to  the  little  table.  Do  you  smoke  .-* 
Yes?      That's  right — I  am  learning.      Take  one  of 

225 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

these;  and  here's  a  light.*     She  threw  a  match-box 
across. 

Fitzpiers  caught  it,  and  having  lit  up  regarded  her 
from  his  new  position,  which,  with  the  shifting  of  the 
candles,  for  the  first  time  afforded  him  a  full  view  of 
her  face. 

*  How  many  years  have  passed  since  first  we 
met  ?  *  she  resumed,  in  a  voice  which  she  endeavoured 
to  maintain  at  its  former  pitch  of  composure,  and 
eyeing  him  with  daring  bashfulness. 

*  We  met,  do  you  say  ?  * 

She  nodded.  *  I  saw  you  recently  at  an  hotel  in 
London,  when  you  were  passing  through,  I  suppose, 
with  your  bride,  and  I  recognized  you  as  one  I  had 
met  in  my  girlhood.  Do  you  remember,  when  you 
were  studying  at  Heidelberg,  an  English  family  that 
was  staying  there,  who  used  to  walk ' 

*  And  the  young  lady  who  wore  a  long  tail  of  rare- 
coloured  hair — ah,  I  see  it  before  my  eyes ! — who  lost 
her  handkerchief  on  the  Great  Terrace — who  was 
going  back  in  the  dusk  to  find  it — to  whom  I  said, 
*'  I'll  go  for  it,"  and  who  answered,  "  O,  it  is  not  worth 
coming  all  the  way  up  again  for."  I  do  remember, 
and  how  very  long  we  stayed  talking  there  :  I  went 
next  morning,  whilst  the  dew  was  on  the  grass :  there 
it  lay — a  little  morsel  of  damp  lacework,  with  **  Felice  " 
marked  in  one  corner.  I  see  it  now !  I  picked  it  up, 
and  then  .  .  ,* 

*Well.?' 

*  I  kissed  it,'  he  rejoined,  rather  shamefacedly. 

*  But  you  had  hardly  ever  seen  me  except  in  the 
dusk?' 

*  Never  mind.  I  was  young  then,  and  I  kissed 
it.  I  wondered  how  I  could  make  the  most  of  my 
trouvaille,  and  decided  that  I  would  call  at  your  hotel 
with  it  that  afternoon.  It  rained,  and  I  waited  till 
next  day.     I  called,  and  you  were  gone.' 

'  Yes,'  answered  she  with  dry  melancholy.  *  My 
mother,  knowing  my  face  was  my  only  fortune,  said 

226 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

she  had  no  wish  for  such  a  chit  as  me  to  go  falling 
in  love  with  an  impecunious  student,  and  spirited  me 
away  to  Baden.  As  it  is  all  over  and  past  I'll  tell  you 
one  thing ;  I  should  have  sent  you  a  line  had  I  known 
your  name.  That  name  I  never  knew  till  my  maid 
said  as  you  passed  up  the  hotel  stairs  a  month  ago, 
*'  There's  Dr.  Fitzpiers."  ' 

*  Good  God,'  said  Fitzpiers  musingly.  *  How  the 
time  comes  back  to  me !  The  evening,  the  morning, 
the  dew,  the  spot.  When  I  found  that  you  really 
were  gone  it  was  as  if  a  cold  iron  had  been  passed 
down  my  back.  I  went  up  to  where  you  had  stood 
when  I  last  saw  you — I  flung  myself  on  the  grass,  and 
— being  not  much  more  than  a  boy — my  eyes  were 
literally  blinded  with  tears.  Nameless,  unknown  to 
me  as  you  were,  I  couldn't  forget  your  voice  1  * 

*  For  how  long  ?  ' 

*  O — ever  so  long.     Days  and  days.* 

*  Days  and  days  !  Only  days  and  days  ?  O,  the 
heart  of  a  man  !     Days  and  days  ! ' 

*  But,  my  dear  madam,  I  had  not  known  you  more 
than  a  day  or  two.  It  was  not  a  full-blown  love — it 
was  the  merest  bud — red,  fresh,  vivid,  but  small.  It 
was  a  colossal  passion  in  embryo.      It  never  matured.* 

*  So  much  the  better  perhaps.' 

*  Perhaps.  But  see  how  powerless  is  the  human 
will  against  predestination !  We  were  prevented 
meeting ;  we  have  met.  One  feature  of  the  case 
remains  the  same  amid  many  changes.  While  you 
have  grown  rich,  I  am  still  poor.  Better  than  that, 
you  have  (judging  by  your  last  remark)  outgrown  the 
foolish  impulsive  passions  of  your  early  girlhood.  I 
have  not  outgrown  mine.' 

*  I  beg  your  pardon,*  said  she  with  vibrations  of 
feeling  in  her  words.  *  I  have  been  placed  in  a 
position  which  hinders  such  outgrowings.  Besides, 
I  don't  believe  that  the  genuine  subjects  of  emotion 
do  outgrow  them ;  I  believe  that  the  older  such 
people  get  the  worse  they  are.     Possibly  at  ninety  or 

227 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

a  hundred  they  may  feel  they  are  cured  :  but  a  mere 
threescore  and  ten  won't  do  it — at  least  for  me,  if  I 
live  so  long.' 

He  gazed  at  her  in  undisguised  admiration.  Here 
was  a  soul  of  souls  ! 

*  You  speak  truly,'  he  exclaimed.  *  But  you  speak 
sadly  as  well.     Why  is  that  ? ' 

'  I  always  am  sad  when  I  come  here,'  she  said, 
dropping  to  a  low  tone  with  a  sense  of  having  been 
too  demonstrative. 

*  Then  may  I  inquire  why  you  came  ?  ' 

*  A  man  brought  me.  Women  are  always  carried 
about  like  corks  upon  the  waves  of  masculine  desires. 
...  I  hope  I  have  not  alarmed  you ;  but  Hintock  has 
the  curious  effect  of  bottling  up  the  emotions  till  one 
can  no  longer  hold  them ;  I  am  often  obliged  to  fly 
away  and  discharge  my  sentiments  somewhere,  or  I 
should  die  outright.' 

*  There  is  very  good  society  in  the  county,  I  sup- 
pose, for  those  who  have  the  privilege  of  entering  it.* 

'  Perhaps  so.  But  the  misery  of  remote  country 
life  is  that  your  neighbours  have  no  toleration  for 
difference  of  opinion  and  habit.  My  neighbours  think 
I  am  an  atheist,  except  those  who  think  I  am  a 
Roman  Catholic ;  and  when  I  speak  disrespectfully 
of  the  weather  or  the  crops  they  think  I  am  a 
blasphemer.' 

*  You  don't  wish  me  to  stay  any  longer  ?  *  he 
inquired,  when  he  found  that  she  remained  musing. 

*  No — I  think  not.* 

*  Then  tell  me  that  I  am  to  be  gone/ 

*  Why  .^  cannot  you  go  without  ?  ' 

*  I  may  consult  my  own  feelings  only,  if  left  to 
myself.* 

*  Well,  if  you  do,  what  then  ?  Do  you  suppose 
you'll  be  in  my  way  ?  * 

*  I  feared  it  might  be  so.* 

'Then  fear  no  more.  But  good -night.  Come 
to-morrow  and  see  if  I   am  going  on  right.      This 

228 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

renewal  of  acquaintance  touches  me.     I  have  already 
a  friendship  for  you/ 

*  If  it  depends  upon  myself  it  shall  last  for  ever.* 

*  My  best  hopes  that  it  may  ! ' 

Fitzpiers  went  down  the  stairs  absolutely  unable 
to  decide  whether  she  had  sent  for  him  in  the 
natural  alarm  which  might  have  followed  her  mishap, 
or  with  the  single  view  of  making  herself  known  to 
him  as  she  had  done,  for  which  the  capsize  had 
afforded  excellent  opportunity. 

Outside  the  house  he  mused  over  the  spot  under 
the  light  of  the  stars.  It  seemed  very  strange  that 
he  should  have  come  there  more  than  once  when  its 
inhabitant  was  absent,  and  observed  the  house  with 
a  nameless  interest;  that  he  should  have  assumed 
off-hand  before  he  knew  Grace  that  it  was  here  she 
lived ;  that,  in  short,  at  sundry  times  and  seasons 
the  individuality  of  Hintock  House  should  have  forced 
itself  upon  him  as  appertaining  to  some  existence  with 
which  he  was  concerned. 

The  intersection  of  his  temporal  orbit  with  Mrs. 
Charmond's  for  a  day  or  two  in  the  past  had  created 
a  sentimental  interest  in  her  at  the  time,  but  it  had 
been  so  evanescent  that  in  the  ordinary  onward  roll 
of  affairs  he  would  scarce  ever  have  recalled  it  again. 
To  find  her  here,  however,  in  these  somewhat  romantic 
circumstances,  magnified  that  bygone  and  transitory 
tenderness  to  indescribable  proportions. 

On  entering  Little  Hintock  he  found  himself  re- 
garding that  hamlet  in  a  new  way — from  the  Hintock 
House  point  of  view  rather  than  from  his  own  and  the 
Melburys'.  The  household  had  all  gone  to  bed.  As 
he  went  upstairs  he  heard  the  snore  of  the  timber- 
merchant  from  his  quarter  of  the  building,  and  turned 
into  the  passage  communicating  with  his  own  rooms 
in  a  strange  access  of  sadness. 

A  light  was  burning  for  him  in  the  chamber ;  but 
Grace,  though  in  bed,  was  not  asleep.  In  a  moment 
her  sympathetic  voice  came  from  behind  the  curtains. 

229 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

*  Edred,  is  she  very  seriously  hurt  ?  * 

Fitzpiers  had  so  entirely  lost  sight  of  Mrs.  Char- 
mond  as  a  patient  that  he  was  not  on  the  instant 
ready  with  a  reply. 

*  O  no,*  he  said.  *  There  are  no  bones  broken,  but 
she  is  shaken.     I  am  going  again  to-morrow.' 

Another  inquiry  or  two,  and  Grace  said — 

*  Did  she  ask  for  me  ?  * 

*Well,  I  think  she  did — I  don't  quite  remember; 
but  I  am  under  the  impression  that  she  spoke  of  you.' 

*  Cannot  you  recollect  at  all  what  she  said  ? ' 

*  I  cannot,  just  this  minute.' 

*At  any  rate,  she  did  not  talk  much  about  me.**' 
said  Grace  with  disappointment. 

*  O  no.' 

*  But  you  did,  perhaps,*  she  added,  innocently  fish- 
ing for  a  compliment. 

'  O  yes — you  may  depend  upon  that ! '  replied  he 
warmly,  though  scarcely  thinking  of  what  he  was 
saying,  so  vividly  was  there  present  to  his  mind  the 
personality  of  Mrs.  Charmond, 


XXVII 

The  doctor's  professional  visit  to  Hintock  House 
was  promptly  repeated  the  next  day  and  the  next. 
He  always  found  Mrs.  Charmond  reclining  on  a  sofa, 
and  behaving  generally  as  became  a  patient  who  was 
in  no  great  hurry  to  lose  that  title.  On  each  occasion 
he  looked  gravely  at  the  little  scratch  on  her  arm,  as 
if  it  had  been  a  serious  wound. 

He  had  also,  to  his  further  satisfaction,  found  a 
slight  scar  on  her  temple,  and  it  was  very  convenient 
to  put  a  piece  of  black  plaster  on  this  conspicuous 
part  of  her  person  in  preference  to  gold-beater's  skin, 
so  that  it  might  catch  the  eyes  of  the  servants  and 
make  his  presence  appear  decidedly  necessary,  in  case 
there  should  be  any  doubt  of  the  fact. 

*  O — you  hurt  me  !  *  she  exclaimed  one  day. 

He  was  peeling  off  the  bit  of  plaster  on  her  arm, 
under  which  the  scrape  had  turned  the  colour  of  an 
unripe  blackberry  previous  to  vanishing  altogether. 

*  Wait  a  moment  then — I'll  damp  it,'  said  Fitzpiers. 
He  put  his  lips  to  the  place  and  kept  them  there, 
without  any  objecting  on  her  part,  till  the  plaster 
came  off  easily.  *  It  was  at  your  request  I  put  it  on,' 
said  he. 

*  I  know  it,'  she  replied.  '  Is  that  blue  vein  still 
in  my  temple  that  used  to  show  there?  The  scar 
must  be  just  upon  it.  If  the  cut  had  been  a  little 
deeper  it  would  have  spilt  my  hot  blood  indeed ! ' 

Fitzpiers  examined  so  closely  that  his  breath 
touched  her  tenderly,  at  which  their  eyes  rose  to  an 

231 


V 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

encounter — hers  showing  themselves  as  deep  and 
mysterious  as  interstellar  space.  She  turned  her  face 
away. 

*  Ah  !  none  of  that !  none  of  that — I  cannot  coquet 
with  you ! '  she  cried.  *  Don't  suppose  I  consent  to 
for  one  moment.  Our  poor,  brief,  youthful  hour  of 
love-making  was  too  long  ago  to  bear  continuing  now. 
It  is  as  well  that  we  should  understand  each  other  on 
that  point  before  we  go  further.' 

*  Coquet !  Nor  I  with  you.  As  it  was  when  I 
found  the  historic  handkerchief,  so  it  is  now.  I  might 
have  been  and  may  be  foolish  ;  but  I  am  no  trifler.  I 
naturally  cannot  forget  that  little  space  in  which  I 
flitted  across  the  field  of  your  vision  in  those  days 
of  the  past,  and  the  recollection  opens  up  all  sorts  of 
imaginings.* 

*  Suppose  my  mother  had  not  taken  me  away  ?  * 
she  murmured,  her  dreamy  eyes  resting  on  the  swaying 
tip  of  a  distant  tree. 

*  I  should  have  seen  you  again.' 

*  And  then  ?  ' 

*  Then  the  fire  would  have  burnt  higher  and  higher. 
What  would  have  immediately  followed  I  know  not, 
but  sorrow  and  sickness  of  heart  at  last.* 

*Why.?' 

*  Well — that's  the  end  of  all  love,  according  to 
Nature's  law.     I  can  give  no  other  reason.' 

*  O,  don't  speak  like  that ! '  she  exclaimed.  *  Since 
we  are  only  picturing  the  possibilities  of  that  time, 
don't  for  pity's  sake  spoil  the  picture.'  Her  voice 
sank  almost  to  a  whisper  as  she  added  with  an  in- 
cipient pout  upon  her  lips,  *  Let  me  think  at  least 
that  if  you  had  really  loved  me  at  all  seriously  you 
would  have  loved  me  for  ever  and  ever ! ' 

*  You  are  right — think  it  with  all  your  heart,*  said 
he.     *  It  is  a  pleasant  thought,  and  costs  nothing.' 

She  weighed  that  remark  in  silence  a  while.  *  Did 
you  ever  hear  anything  of  me  from  then  till  now?' 
she  inquired. 

232 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

*  Not  a  word.' 

'So  much  the  better.  I  had  to  fight  the  battle 
of  life  as  well  as  you.  I  may  tell  you  about  it  some 
day.  But  don't  ever  ask  me  to  do  it,  and  particularly 
do  not  press  me  to  tell  you  now.' 

Thus  the  two  or  three  days  that  they  had  spent 
in  tender  acquaintance  on  the  romantic  slopes  above 
the  Neckar  were  stretched  out  in  retrospect  to  the 
length  and  importance  of  years ;  made  to  form  a 
canvas  for  infinite  fancies,  idle  dreams,  luxurious 
melancholies,  and  pretty,  alluring  assertions  which 
could  neither  be  proved  nor  disproved. 

Grace  was  never  mentioned  between  them,  but  a 
rumour  of  his  contemplated  removal  from  the  neigh- 
bourhood somehow  reached  Mrs.  Charmond's  ears. 

*  Doctor,  you  are  going  away ! '  she  exclaimed, 
confronting  him  with  accusatory  reproach  in  her  large 
dark  eyes  no  less  than  in  her  cooing  voice.  *  O  yes, 
you  are,'  she  went  on,  springing  to  her  feet  with  an 
air  which  might  almost  have  been  called  passionate. 
*  It  is  no  use  denying  it !  You  have  bought  a  practice 
at  Budmouth.  I  don't  blame  you.  Nobody  can  live 
at  Hintock — least  of  all  a  professional  man  who  wants 
to  keep  abreast  of  recent  discovery.  And  there  is 
nobody  here  to  induce  such  a  one  to  stay  for  other 
reasons.     That's  right,  that's  right — go  away  ! ' 

*  But  no — I  have  not  actually  bought  the  practice 
as  yet,  though  I  am  indeed  in  treaty  for  it.  And, 
my  dear  friend,  if  I  continue  to  feel  about  the  business 
as  I  feel  at  this  moment — perhaps  I  may  conclude 
never  to  go  at  all.' 

*  But  you  hate  Hintock,  and  everything  and  every- 
body in  it  that  you  don't  mean  to  take  away  with 
you  ! ' 

Fitzpiers  contradicted  this  idea  in  his  most  vibra- 
tory tones,  and  she  lapsed  into  the  frivolous  archness 
under  which  she  hid  passions  of  no  mean  strength 
— strange,  smouldering,  erratic  passions,  kept  down 
like  a  stifled  conflagration,  but  bursting  out  now  here, 

233 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

now  there — the  only  certain  element  in  their  direction 
being  its  unexpectedness. 

If  one  word  could  have  expressed  Felice  Char- 
mond  it  would  have  been  Inconsequence.  She 
was  a  woman  of  perversities,  delighting  in  piquant 
contrasts.  She  liked  mystery,  in  her  life,  in  her  love, 
in  her  history.  To  be  fair  to  her,  there  was  nothing 
in  these  which  she  had  any  great  reason  to  be 
ashamed  of,  and  many  things  of  which  she  might  have 
been  proud ;  but  her  past  had  never  been  fathomed 
by  the  honest  minds  of  Hintock,  and  she  rarely 
volunteered  her  experiences.  As  for  her  capricious 
nature  the  people  on  her  estates  grew  accustomed  to 
it,  and  with  that  marvellous  subtlety  of  contrivance  in 
steering  round  odd  tempers  that  is  found  in  sons  of 
the  soil  and  dependents  generally,  they  managed  to 
get  along  under  her  government  rather  better  than 
they  would  have  done  beneath  a  more  equable  rule. 

Now,  with  regard  to  the  doctor's  notion  of  leaving 
Hintock,  he  had  advanced  further  towards  completing 
the  purchase  of  the  Budmouth  surgeon's  goodwill 
than  he  had  admitted  to  Mrs.  Charmond.  The  whole 
matter  hung  upon  what  he  might  do  in  the  ensuing 
twenty-four  hours.  The  evening  after  leaving  her  he 
went  out  into  the  lane,  and  walked  and  pondered 
between  the  high  hedges,  now  greenish-white  with 
wild  clematis — here  called  *  old-man's-beard  '  from  its 
aspect  later  in  the  year. 

The  letter  of  acceptance  was  to  be  written  that 
night,  after  which  his  departure  from  Hintock  would 
be  irrevocable.  But  could  he  go  away,  remembering 
what  had  just  passed  ?  The  trees,  the  hills,  the  leaves, 
the  grass — each  had  been  endowed  and  quickened 
with  a  subtle  light  since  he  had  discovered  the  person 
and  history,  and,  above  all,  the  mood  of  their  owner. 
There  was  every  temporal  reason  for  leaving :  it 
would  be  entering  again  into  a  world  which  he  had 
only  quitted  in  a  passion  for  isolation,  induced  by  a 
fit  of  Achillean  moodiness  after  an  imagined  slight. 

234 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

His  wife  herself  saw  the  awkwardness  of  their  position 
here,  and  cheerfully  welcomed  the  purposed  change, 
towards  which  every  step  had  been  taken  but  the  last. 
But  could  he  find  it  in  his  heart — as  he  found  it  clearly 
enough  in  his  conscience — to  go  away?     No. 

He  drew  a  troubled  breath  and  went  indoors. 
Here  he  rapidly  penned  a  letter,  wherein  he  withdrew, 
once  for  all,  from  the  treaty  for  the  Budmouth  practice. 
As  the  postman  had  already  left  Little  Hintock  for 
that  night  he  sent  one  of  Melbury's  men  to  intercept 
a  mail-cart  on  another  turnpike-road,  and  so  got  the 
letter  off. 

The  man  returned,  met  Fitzpiers  in  the  lane,  and 
told  him  the  thing  was  done.  Fitzpiers  went  back 
to  his  house  musing.  Why  had  he  carried  out  this 
impulse — taken  such  wild  trouble  to  effect  a  probable 
injury  to  his  own  and  his  young  wife's  prospects? 
His  motive  was  fantastic,  glowing,  shapeless  as  the 
fiery  scenery  about  the  western  sky.  Mrs.  Charmond 
could  overtly  be  nothing  more  to  him  than  a  patient, 
and  to  his  wife,  at  the  outside,  a  patron.  Yet  in  the 
unattached  bachelor  days  of  his  first  sojourn  here  how 
highly  proper  an  emotional  reason  for  lingering  on 
would  have  appeared  to  troublesome  dubiousness. 
Matrimonial  ambition  is  such  an  honourable  thing ! 

*  My  father  has  told  me  that  you  have  sent  off  one 
of  the  men  with  a  late  letter  to  Budmouth,'  cried 
Grace,  coming  out  vivaciously  to  meet  him  under  the 
declining  light  of  the  sky,  wherein  hung,  solitary,  the 
folding  star.  *  I  said  at  once  that  you  had  finally 
agreed  to  pay  the  premium  they  ask,  and  that  the 
tedious  question  had  been  settled.  When  do  we  go, 
Edred?' 

*  I  have  changed  my  mind,'  said  he.  *  They  want 
too  much — seven  hundred  and  fifty  is  too  large  a  sum, 
— and  in  short  I  have  declined  to  go  further.  We 
must  wait  for  another  opportunity.  I  fear  I  am  not  a 
good  business  man.' 

He   spoke    the    last   words    with    a    momentary 

235 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

faltering  at  the  great  foolishness  of  his  act ;  and  as 
he  looked  in  her  fair  and  honourable  face  his  heart 
reproached  him  for  what  he  had  done. 

Her  manner  that  evening  showed  her  disappoint- 
ment. Personally  she  liked  the  home  of  her  childhood 
much,  and  she  was  not  ambitious.  But  her  husband 
had  seemed  so  dissatisfied  with  the  circumstances 
hereabout  since  their  marriage  that  she  had  sincerely 
hoped  to  go  for  his  sake. 

It  was  two  or  three  days  before  he  visited  Mrs. 
Charmond  again.  The  morning  had  been  windy,  and 
little  showers  had  scattered  themselves  like  grain 
against  the  walls  and  window-panes  of  the  Hintock 
cottages.  He  went  on  foot  across  the  wilder  recesses 
of  the  park,  where  slimy  streams  of  fresh  moisture, 
exuding  from  decayed  holes  caused  by  old  amputa- 
tions, ran  down  the  bark  of  the  oaks  and  elms,  the 
rind  below  being  coated  with  a  lichenous  wash  as 
green  as  emerald.  They  were  stout-trunked  trees, 
that  never  rocked  their  stems  in  the  fiercest  gale, 
responding  to  it  only  by  crooking  their  limbs. 
Wrinkled  like  an  old  crone's  face,  and  antlered  with 
dead  branches  that  rose  above  the  foliage  of  their 
summits,  they  were  nevertheless  still  green — though 
yellow  had  invaded  the  leaves  of  other  trees. 

She  was  in  a  little  boudoir  or  writing-room  on  the 
first  floor,  and  Fitzpiers  was  much  surprised  to  find 
that  the  window  curtains  were  closed  and  a  red- 
shaded  lamp  and  candles  burning,  though  out  of  doors 
it  was  broad  daylight.  Moreover  a  large  fire  was 
burning  in  the  grate,  though  it  was  not  cold. 

*  What  does  it  all  mean  ?  '  he  asked. 

She  sat  in  an  easy-chair,  her  face  being  turned 
away. 

*  O,*  she  murmured,  *  it  is  because  the  world  is  so 
dreary  outside !  Sorrow  and  bitterness  in  the  sky, 
and  floods  of  agonized  tears  beating  against  the 
panes.  I  lay  awake  last  night,  and  I  could  hear  the 
scrape  of  snails  creeping  up  the  window  glass ;  it  was 

236 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

so  sad  I  My  eyes  were  so  heavy  this  morning  that  I 
could  have  wept  my  life  away.  I  cannot  bear  you  to 
see  my  face  ;  1  keep  it  away  from  you  purposely.  O  ! 
why  were  we  given  hungry  hearts  and  wild  desires  if 
we  have  to  live  in  a  world  like  this  ?  Why  should 
Death  alone  lend  what  Life  is  compelled  to  borrow — 
rest  ?     Answer  that,  Dr.  Fitzpiers.' 

*You  must  eat  of  a  second  tree  of  knowledge 
before  you  can  do  it,  Felice  Charmond.' 

*  Then,  when  my  emotions  have  exhausted  them- 
selves, I  become  full  of  fears,  till  I  think  I  shall  die 
for  very  fear.  The  terrible  insistencies  of  society — 
how  severe  they  are,  and  cold,  and  inexorable — 
ghastly  towards  those  who  are  made  of  wax  and  not  of 
stone.  O,  I  am  afraid  of  them  ;  a  stab  for  this  error, 
and  a  stab  for  that — correctives  and  regulations  pre- 
tendedly  framed  that  society  may  tend  to  perfection 
— an  end  which  I  don't  care  for  in  the  least.  Yet  for 
this  all  I  do  care  for  has  to  be  stunted  and  starved.' 

Fitzpiers  had  seated  himself  near  her.  *  What  sets 
you  in  this  mournful  mood  ?  '  he  asked  gently.  In 
reality  he  thought  that  it  was  the  result  of  a  loss  of 
tone  from  staying  indoors  so  much,  but  he  did  not 
say  so. 

*  My  reflections.  Doctor,  you  must  not  come 
here  any  more.  They  begin  to  think  it  a  farce 
already.  I  say  you  must  come  no  more.  There — 
don't  be  angry  with  me  ! ' — and  she  jumped  up,  pressed 
his  hand,  and  looked  anxiously  at  him.  *  It  is  neces- 
sary.     It  is  best  for  both  you  and  me.* 

*  But,'  said  Fitzpiers  gloomily,  *  what  have  we 
done  ?  * 

'  Done — we  have  done  nothing.  Perhaps  we 
have  thought  the  more.  However,  it  is  all  vexation. 
I  am  going  away  to  Middleton  Abbey,  near  Shotts- 
ford,  where  a  relative  of  my  late  husband  lives,  who 
is  confined  to  her  bed.  The  engagement  was  made 
in  London,  and  I  can't  get  out  of  it.  Perhaps  it  is 
for  the  best  that  I  go  there  till  all  this  is  past.     When 

237 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

are  you  going  to  enter  on  your  new  practice,  and  leave 
Hintock  behind  for  ever,  with  your  pretty  wife  on  your 
arm  ? ' 

*  I  have  refused  the  opportunity.  I  love  this  place 
too  well  to  depart/ 

*  You  have  ?  *  she  said,  regarding  him  with  wild 
uncertainty.  *  Why  do  you  ruin  yourself  in  that  way  ? 
Great  heaven,  what  have  I  done ! ' 

*  Nothing.     Besides,  you  are  going  away.* 

*  O  yes ;  but  only  to  Middleton  Abbey  for  a 
month  or  two.  Yet  perhaps  I  shall  gain  strength 
there — particularly  strength  of  mind — I  require  it. 
And  when  I  come  back  I  shall  be  a  new  woman  ;  and 
you  can  come  and  see  me  safely  then,  and  bring  your 
wife  with  you,  and  we'll  be  friends — she  and  I.  O, 
how  this  shutting  up  of  one's  self  does  lead  to  in- 
dulgence in  idle  sentiments !  I  shall  not  wish  you  to 
give  your  attendance  to  me  after  to-day.  But  I  am 
glad  that  you  are  not  going  away — if  your  remaining 
does  not  injure  your  prospects  at  all.' 

As  soon  as  he  had  left  the  room  the  mild  friendli- 
ness she  had  preserved  in  her  tone  at  parting,  the 
playful  sadness  with  which  she  had  conversed  with 
him,  equally  departed  from  her.  She  became  as 
heavy  as  lead — just  as  she  had  been  before  he 
arrived.  Her  whole  being  seemed  to  dissolve  in  a 
sad  powerlessness  to  do  anything,  and  the  sense  of 
it  made  her  lips  tremulous  and  her  closed  eyes  wet. 

His  footsteps  again  startled  her,  and  she  turned 
round. 

*  I  return  for  a  moment  to  tell  you  that  the  evening 
is  going  to  be  fine.  The  sun  is  shining,  so  do  open 
your  curtains  and  put  out  those  lights.  Shall  I  do  it 
for  you  t ' 

*  Please — if  you  don't  mind.' 

He  drew  back  the  window  curtains,  whereupon  the 
red  glow  of  the  lamp  and  the  two  candle -flames 
became  almost  invisible  under  the  flood  of  late 
autumn  sunlight  that  poured  in. 

238 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

*  Shall  I  come  round  to  you  ?  '  he  asked,  her  back 
being  towards  him. 

*  No,'  she  replied. 

*  Why  not  ?  ' 

*  Because  I  am  crying,  and  I  don't  want  you  to  see 
my  face  in  the  full  sun's  rays.' 

He  stood  a  moment  irresolute,  and  regretted  that 
he  had  killed  the  rosy  passionate  lamplight  by  opening 
the  curtains  and  letting  in  garish  day. 

*  Then  I  am  going,'  he  said. 

*  Very  well,'  she  answered,  stretching  one  hand 
round  to  him,  and  patting  her  eyes  with  a  handkerchief 
held  in  the  other. 

*  Shall  I  write  a  line  to  you  at ?  * 

*  No,  no.'  A  gentle  reasonableness  came  into  her 
tone  as  she  added,  *  It  must  not  be,  you  know.  It 
won't  do.' 

*  Very  well.  Good-bye.'  The  next  moment  he 
was  gone. 

In  the  evening  with  listless  adroitness  she  en- 
couraged the  maid  who  dressed  her  for  dinner  to 
speak  of  Dr.  Fitzpiers's  marriage. 

*  Mrs.  Fitzplers  was  once  supposed  to  favour  Mr. 
Winterborne,'  said  the  young  woman. 

*  But  why  didn't  she  marry  him  ? '  said  Mrs. 
Charmond. 

*  Because  you  see,  ma'am,  he  lost  his  houses.* 

*  Lost  his  houses  ?     How  came  he  to  do  that  ?  * 

*  The  houses  were  held  on  lives,  and  the  lives 
dropped,  and  your  agent  wouldn't  renew  them,  though 
it  is  said  that  Mr.  Winterborne  had  a  very  good 
claim.  That's  as  I've  heard  it,  ma'am,  and  it  was 
through  it  that  the  match  was  broke  off.' 

Being  just  then  distracted  by  a  dozen  emotions, 
Mrs.  Charmond  sank  into  a  mood  of  dismal  self- 
reproach.  '  In  refusing  that  poor  man  his  reasonable 
request,'  she  said  to  herself,  *  my  agent  foredoomed 
my  revived  girlhood's  romance.  Who  would  have 
thought  such   a   business   matter  could  have  nettled 

239 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

my  own  heart  like  this  !  Now  for  a  winter  of  regrets 
and  agonies  and  useless  wishes,  till  I  forget  him  in 
the  spring.     O  !  I  am  glad  I  am  going  away  ! ' 

She  left  her  chamber,  and  went  down  to  dine  with 
a  sigh.  On  the  stairs  she  stood  opposite  the  large 
window  for  a  moment,  and  looked  out  upon  the 
lawn.  It  was  not  yet  quite  dark.  Half-way  up  the 
steep  green  slope  confronting  her  stood  old  Timothy 
Tangs,  who  was  shortening  his  way  homeward  by 
clambering  here  where  there  was  no  road,  and  in 
opposition  to  express  orders  that  no  path  was  to  be 
made  there.  Tangs  had  momentarily  stopped  to  take 
a  pinch  of  snuff,  but  observing  Mrs.  Charmond  gazing 
at  him  he  hastened  to  get  over  the  top  out  of  hail. 
His  precipitancy  made  him  miss  his  footing,  and  he 
rolled  like  a  barrel  to  the  bottom,  his  snuff-box  rolling 
in  front  of  him. 

Her  indefinite  idle  impossible  passion  for  Fitzpiers, 
her  constitutional  cloud  of  misery,  the  sorrowful  drops 
that  still  hung  upon  her  eyelashes,  all  made  way  for 
the  impulse  started  by  the  spectacle.  She  burst  into 
an  immoderate  fit  of  laughter ;  her  very  gloom  of  the 
previous  hour  seeming  to  render  it  the  more  uncon- 
trollable. It  had  not  died  out  of  her  when  she 
reached  the  dining-room  ;  and  even  here,  before  the 
servants,  her  shoulders  suddenly  shook  as  the  scene 
returned  upon  her ;  and  the  tears  of  her  risibility 
mingled  with  the  remnants  of  those  engendered  by 
her  grief. 

She  resolved  to  be  sad  no  more.  She  drank  two 
glasses  of  champagne,  and  a  little  more  still  after 
those  ;  and  amused  herself  in  the  evening  with  singing 
pretty  amatory  songs. 

*  I  must  do  something  for  that  poor  man  Winter- 
borne,  however,'  she  said 


XXVIII 

A  WEEK  had  passed,  and  Mrs.  Charmond  had  left 
Hintock  House.  Middleton  Abbey,  the  place  of  her 
sojourn,  was  about  a  dozen  miles  distant  by  road,  a 
little  less  by  bridle-paths  and  footways. 

Grace  observed,  for  the  first  time,  that  her  husband 
was  restless,  that  at  moments  he  even  was  disposed 
to  avoid  her.  The  scrupulous  civility  of  mere  acquaint- 
anceship crept  into  his  manner;  yet  when  sitting  at 
meals  he  seemed  hardly  to  hear  her  remarks.  Her 
little  doings  interested  him  no  longer,  whilst  towards 
her  father  his  bearing  was  not  far  from  supercilious. 
It  was  plain  that  his  mind  was  entirely  outside  her 
life,  whereabouts  outside  it  she  could  not  tell ;  in 
some  region  of  science  possibly,  or  of  psychological 
literature.  But  her  hope  that  he  was  again  immers- 
ing himself  in  those  lucubrations  which  before  her 
marriage  had  made  his  light  a  landmark  in  Hintock, 
was  founded  simply  on  the  slender  fact  that  he  often 
sat  up  late. 

One  day  she  discovered  him  leaning  over  a  gate 
on  High-Stoy  Hill,  some  way  from  Little  Hintock, 
which  opened  on  the  brink  of  a  declivity,  slanting 
down  directly  into  White- Hart  or  Blackmoor  Vale, 
extending  beneath  the  eye  at  this  point  to  a  distance 
of  many  miles.  His  attention  was  fixed  on  the  land- 
scape far  away  eastward,  and  Grace's  approach  was  so 
noiseless  that  he  did  not  hear  her.  When  she  came 
close  she  could  see  his  lips  moving  unconsciously,  as 
on  some  impassioned  visionary  theme. 

241 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

She  spoke,  and  Fitzpiers  started.  '  What  are  you 
looking  at  ?  '  she  asked. 

'  O  !  I  was  contemplating  my  mother's  people's  old 
place  of  Sherton  Abbas,  in  my  idle  way,'  he  said. 

It  had  seemed  to  her  that  he  was  looking  much 
to  the  right  of  that  cradle  and  tomb  of  his  ancestral 
dignity ;  but  she  made  no  further  observation,  and 
taking  his  arm  walked  home  beside  him  almost  in 
silence.  She  did  not  know  that  Middleton  Abbey 
lay  in  the  direction  of  his  gaze. 

*  Are  you  going  to  have  out  Darling  this  after- 
noon ?'  she  asked  presently. 

Darling,  the  aged  light-grey  mare  which  Winter- 
borne  had  bought  for  Grace,  Fitzpiers  now  constantly 
used,  the  animal  having  turned  out  a  wonderful  bar- 
gain in  combining  a  perfect  docility  with  an  almost 
human  intelligence ;  moreover,  she  was  not  too 
young.  Fitzpiers  was  unfamiliar  with  horses,  and  he 
valued  these  qualities. 

*  Yes,'  he  replied,  *  but  not  to  drive.  I  am  riding 
her.  I  practise  crossing  a  horse  as  often  as  I  can 
now,  for  I  find  that  I  can  take  much  shorter  cuts  on 
horseback.' 

He  had,  in  fact,  taken  these  riding  exercises  for 
about  a  week,  only  since  Mrs.  Charmond's  absence ; 
his  universal  practice  hitherto  having  been  to  drive. 

Some  few  days  later  Fitzpiers  started  on  the  back 
of  this  horse  to  see  a  patient  in  the  aforesaid  Vale. 
It  was  about  five  o'clock  in  the  evening  when  he 
went  away,  and  at  bedtime  he  had  not  reached  home. 
There  was  nothing  very  singular  in  this,  though  she 
was  not  aware  that  he  had  any  patient  more  than 
five  or  six  miles  distant  in  that  direction.  The  clock 
had  struck  one  before  Fitzpiers  entered  the  house, 
and  he  came  to  his  room  softly,  as  if  anxious  not  to 
disturb  her. 

The  next  morning  she  was  stirring  considerably 
earlier  than  he.  In  the  yard  there  was  a  conversation 
going  on  about  the  mare ;  the  man  who  attended  to 

242 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

the  horses,  Darling  included,  insisted  that  the  latter 
was  '  hag-rid ' ;  for  when  he  had  arrived  at  the  stable 
that  morning  she  was  in  such  a  state  as  no  horse 
could  be  in  by  honest  riding.  It  was  true  that  the 
doctor  had  stabled  her  himself  when  he  got  home, 
so  that  she  was  not  looked  after  as  she  would  have 
been  if  the  speaker  had  groomed  and  fed  her ;  but 
that  did  not  account  for  the  appearance  she  presented, 
if  Mr.  Fitzpiers's  journey  had  been  only  where  he  had 
stated.  The  unprecedented  exhaustion  of  Darling,  as 
thus  related,  was.  sufficient  to  develop  a  whole  series 
of  tales  about  equestrian  witches  and  demons,  the 
narration  of  which  occupied  a  considerable  time. 

Grace  returned  indoors.  In  passing  through  the 
outer  room  she  picked  up  her  husband's  overcoat 
which  he  had  carelessly  flung  down  across  a  chair. 
A  turnpike  ticket  fell  out  of  the  breast-pocket,  and 
she  saw  that  it  had  been  issued  at  Middleton  Gate. 
He  had  therefore  visited  Middleton  the  previous 
night,  a  distance  of  at  least  four-and-twenty  miles  on 
horseback,  there  and  back. 

During  the  day  she  made  some  inquiries,  and 
learnt  for  the  first  time  that  Mrs.  Charmond  was 
staying  at  Middleton  Abbey.  She  could  not  resist 
an  inference — strange  as  that  inference  was. 

A  few  days  later  he  prepared  to  start  again,  at 
the  same  time  and  in  the  same  direction.  She  knew 
that  the  state  of  the  cottager  who  lived  that  way 
was  a  mere  pretext ;  she  was  quite  sure  he  was  going 
to  Mrs.  Charmond. 

Grace  was  amazed  at  the  mildness  of  the  anger 
which  the  suspicion  engendered  in  her.  She  was  but 
little  excited,  and  her  jealousy  was  languid  even  to 
death.  It  told  tales  of  the  nature  of  her  affection 
for  him.  In  truth,  her  ante-nuptial  regard  for  Fitz- 
piers  had  been  rather  of  the  quality  of  awe  towards 
a  superior  being  than  of  tender  solicitude  for  a  lover. 
It  had  been  based  upon  mystery  and  strangeness — 
the  mystery  of  his  past,  of  his  knowledge,  of  his  pro- 

243 


i 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

fessional  skill,  of  his  beliefs.  When  this  structure  of 
ideals  was  demolished  by  the  intimacy  of  common 
life,  and  she  found  him  as  merely  human  as  the 
Hintock  people  themselves,  a  new  foundation  was  in 
demand  for  an  enduring  and  staunch  affection — a 
sympathetic  interdependence,  wherein  mutual  weak- 
nesses are  made  the  grounds  of  a  defensive  alliance. 
Fitzpiers  had  furnished  nothing  of  that  single-minded 
confidence  and  truth  out  of  which  alone  such  a 
second  union  could  spring ;  hence  it  was  with  a  con- 
trollable emotion  that  she  now  watched  the  mare 
brought  round. 

'I'll  walk  with  you  to  the  hill  if  you  are  not  in  a 
great  hurry,'  she  said,  rather  loth,  after  all,  to  let  him  go. 

*  Do  ;  there's  plenty  of  time,'  replied  her  husband. 
Accordingly  he  led  along  the  horse,  and  walked 

beside  her,  impatient  enough  nevertheless.  Thus 
they  proceeded  to  the  turnpike  road,  and  ascended 
towards  the  base  of  High-Stoy  and  Dogbury  Hill,  till 
they  were  just  beneath  the  gate  he  had  been  leaning 
over  when  she  surprised  him  ten  days  before.  This 
was  the  end  of  her  excursion.  Fitzpiers  bade  her 
adieu  with  affection,  even  with  tenderness,  and  she 
observed  that  he  looked  weary-eyed. 

*  Why  do  you  go  to-night  ?  '  she  said.  *  You  have 
been  called  up  two  nights  in  succession  already.' 

*  I  must  go,*  he  answered,  almost  gloomily. 
•  Don't  wait  up  for  me.'  With  these  words  he 
mounted  his  horse,  turned  into  a  branch  road  by  the 
turnpike,  and  ambled  down  the  incline  to  the  valley. 

She  ascended  the  slope  of  High-Stoy  and  watched 

his  descent,  and  then  his  journey  onward.     His  way 

was  east,   the  evening   sun  which   stood  behind  her 

back  beaming  full  upon  him  as  soon  as  he  got  out 

from   the    shade   of  the   hill.      Notwithstanding   this 

untoward  proceeding  she  was  determined  to  be  loyal 

;    if  he  proved  true  ;  and  the  determination  to  love  one's 

'    best  will  carry  a  heart  a  long  way  towards  making  that 

\  best  an  ever-growing  thing. 

244 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

The  conspicuous  coat  of  the  active  though  blanch- 
ing mare  made  horse  and  rider  easy  objects  for  the 
vision.  Though  Darling  had  been  chosen  with  such 
pains  by  Winterborne  for  Grace,  she  had  never  ridden 
the  sleek  creature ;  but  her  husband  had  found  the 
animal  exceedingly  convenient,  particularly  now  that 
he  had  taken  to  the  saddle,  plenty  of  staying  power 
being  left  in  Darling  yet  for  journeys  of  moderate 
length.  Fitzpiers,  like  others  of  his  character,  while 
despising  Melbury  and  his  station,  did  not  at  all 
disdain  to  spend  Melbury  s  money,  or  appropriate  to 
his  own  use  the  horse  which  belonged  to  Melbury's 
daughter. 

And  so  the  infatuated  surgeon  went  along  through 
the  gorgeous  autumn  landscape  of  White- Hart  Vale, 
surrounded  by  orchards  lustrous  with  the  reds  of 
apple-crops,  berries,  and  foliage,  the  whole  intensified 
by  the  gilding  of  the  declining  sun.  The  earth  this 
year  had  been  prodigally  bountiful,  and  now  was  the 
supreme  moment  of  her  bounty.  In  the  poorest  spots 
the  hedges  were  bowed  with  haws  and  blackberries ; 
acorns  cracked  underfoot,  and  the  burst  husks  of 
chestnuts  lay  exposing  their  auburn  contents  as  if 
arranged  by  anxious  sellers  in  a  fruit-market.  In  all 
this  proud  show  some  kernels  were  unsound  as  her 
own  situation,  and  she  wondered  if  there  were  one 
world  in  the  universe  where  the  fruit  had  no  worm, 
and  marriage  no  sorrow. 

Her  Tannhauser  still  moved  on,  his  plodding 
steed  rendering  him  distinctly  visible  yet.  Could  she 
have  heard  Fitzpiers's  voice  at  that  moment  she  would 
have  found  it  murmuring — 

*  — Towards  the  loadstar  of  my  one  desire 
I  flitted,  like  a  dizzy  moth,  whose  flight 
Is  as  a  dead  leafs  in  the  owlet  light.' 

But  he  was  a  silent  spectacle  to  her.  Soon  he  rose 
out  of  the  valley,  and  skirted  a  high  plateau  of  the 
chalk  formation  on  his  right,   which  rested  abruptly 

245 


\ 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

upon  the  fruity  district  of  deep  loam,  the  character  and 
herbage  of  the  two  formations  being  so  distinct  that 
the  calcareous  upland  appeared  but  as  a  deposit  of  a 
few  years'  antiquity  upon  the  level  vale. 

He  kept  along  the  edge  of  this  high,  uninclosed 
country,  and  the  sky  behind  him  being  deep  violet 
she  could  still  see  white  Darling  in  relief  upon  it — a 
mere  speck  now — a  Wouvermans  eccentricity  reduced 
to  microscopic  dimensions.  Upon  this  high  ground 
he  gradually  disappeared. 

Thus  she  had  beheld  the  pet  animal  purchased  for 
her  own  use,  in  pure  love  of  her,  by  one  who  had 
always  been  true,  impressed  to  convey  her  husband 
away  from  her  to  the  side  of  a  new-found  idol.  While 
^  she  was  musing  on  the  vicissitudes  of  horses  and 
wives  she  discerned  shapes  moving  up  the  valley 
towards  her,  quite  near  at  hand,  though  till  now 
hidden  by  the  hedges.  Surely  they  were  Giles 
Winterborne,  with  two  horses  and  a  cider-apparatus, 
conducted  by  Robert  Creedle.  Up,  upward  they 
crept,  a  stray  beam  of  the  sun  alighting  every  now 
and  then  like  a  star  on  the  blades  of  the  pomace- 
shovels,  which  had  been  converted  to  steel  mirrors 
by  the  action  of  the  malic  acid.  She  descended  to  the 
road  when  he  came  close,  and  the  panting  horses 
rested  as  they  achieved  the  ascent. 

*  How  do  you  do,  Giles  ?  '  said  she,  under  a  sudden 
impulse  to  be  familiar  with  him. 

He  replied  with  much  more  reserve.  *  You  are 
going  for  a  walk,  Mrs.  Fitzpiers  ? '  he  added.  *  It  is 
pleasant  just  now.' 

*  No,  I  am  returning,'  said  she. 

The  vehicles  passed  on,  and  Creedle  with  them, 
and  Winterborne  walked  by  her  side  in  the  rear  of 
the  apple-mill. 
^  He  looked  and  smelt  like  Autumn's  very  brother, 
his  face  being  sunburnt  to  wheat-colour,  his  eyes  blue 
as  corn-flowers,  his  sleeves  and  leggings  dyed  with 
fruit-stains,  his  hands  clammy  with  the  sweet  juice  of 

246 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

apples,  his  hat  sprinkled  with  pips,  and  everywhere 
about  him  that  atmosphere  of  cider  which  at  its  first 
return  each  season  has  such  an  indescribable  fascina- 
tion for  those  who  have  been  born  and  bred  among 
the  orchards.  Her  heart  rose  from  its  late  sadness 
like  a  released  bough  ;  her  senses  revelled  in  the  =  \ 
sudden  lapse  back  to  Nature  unadorned.  The  con-  ;  - 
sciousness  of  having  to  be  genteel  because  of  her 
husband's  profession,  the  veneer  of  artificiality  which 
she  had  acquired  at  the  fashionable  schools,  were 
thrown  off,  and  she  became  the  crude  country  girl  of 
her  latent  early  instincts. 

Nature  was  bountiful,  she  thought.  No  sooner  had 
she  been  cast  aside  by  Edred  Fitzpiers  than  another 
being,  impersonating  chivalrous  and  undiluted  manli- 
ness, had  arisen  out  of  the. ..earth  ready  to  her  hand. 
This,  however,  was  an  excursion  of  the  imagination 
which  she  did  not  wish  to  encourage,  and  she  said 
suddenly,  to  disguise  the  confused  regard  which  had 
followed  her  thoughts,  *  Did  you  meet  my  husband  ?  * 

Winterborne,  with  some  hesitation  :  *  Yes.' 

'  Where  did  you  meet  him  ? ' 

*  Near  Reveller's  Inn.  I  come  from  Middleton 
Abbey  ;  I  have  been  making  there  for  the  last  week.' 

*  Haven't  they  a  mill  of  their  own  ? ' 
'Yes,  but  it's  out  of  repair.' 

*  I  think — I  heard  that  Mrs.  Charmond  had  gone 
there  to  stay  ?  ' 

*  Yes,  I  have  seen  her  at  the  windows  once  or 
twice.' 

Grace  waited  an  interval  before  she  went  on  ;  *  Did 
Mr.  Fitzpiers  take  the  way  to  Middleton  ? ' 

*  Yes.  ...  I  met  him  on  Darling.'  As  she  did 
not  reply,  he  added  with  a  gentler  inflection,  *  You 
know  why  the  mare  was  called  that  ? ' 

*  O  yes — of  course,'  she  answered  quickly. 

With  their  minds  on  these  things  they  passed  so 
.far  round  the  hill  that  the  whole  west  sky  was  revealed. 
Between  the  broken  clouds  they  could  see   far  into 

247 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

the  recesses  of  heaven  as  they  mused  and  walked,  the 
eye  journeying  on  under  a  species  of  golden  arcades, 
and  past  fiery  obstructions,  fancied  cairns,  logan-stones, 
stalactites  and  stalagmite  of  topaz.  Deeper  than  this 
their  gaze  passed  thin  flakes  of  incandescence,  till  it 
plunged  into  a  bottomless  medium  of  soft  green  fire. 

Her  abandonment  to  the  seductive  hour  and  scene 
after  her  sense  of  ill-usage,  her  revolt  for  the  nonce 
against  social  law,  her  passionate  desire  for  primitive 
life  may  have  showed  in  her  face.  Winterborne  was 
looking  at  her,  his  eyes  lingering  on  a  flower  that  she 
wore  in  her  bosom.  Almost  with  the  abstraction  of  a 
somnambulist  he  stretched  out  his  hand  and  gently 
caressed  the  flower. 

She  drew  back.  *  What  are  you  doing,  Giles 
Winterborne  ?  *  she  exclaimed,  with  severe  surprise. 

The  evident  absence  of  all  premeditation  from  the 
act,  however,  speedily  led  her  to  think  that  it  was  not 
necessary  to  stand  upon  her  dignity  here  and  now. 
*  You  must  bear  in  mind,  Giles,'  she  said  kindly,  *  that 
we  are  not  as  we  were ;  and  some  people  might  have 
said  that  what  you  did  was  taking  a  liberty.' 

It  was  more  than  she  need  have  told  him ;  his 
action  of  forgetfulness  had  made  him  so  angry  with 
himself  that  he  flushed  through  his  tan. 

*  I  don't  know  what  I  am  coming  to  !  *  he  exclaimed 
savagely.  *  Ah — I  was  not  once  like  this  !  *  Tears  of 
vexation  were  in  his  eyes. 

*  No,  now — it  was  nothing  !     I  was  too  reproachful.' 

*  It  would  not  have  occurred  to  me  if  I  had  not 
seen  something  like  it  done  elsewhere — at  Middleton 
lately,'  he  said  thoughtfully  after  a  while. 

*  By  whom  ? ' 

*  Don't  ask  it.' 

She  scanned  him  narrowly.  *  I  know  quite  well 
enough,*  she  returned  indifferently.  *  It  was  by  my 
husband,  and  the  woman  was  Mrs.  Charmond.  Asso- 
ciation of  ideas  reminded  you  when  you  saw  me.  .  .  . 
Giles — tell  me  all  you  know  about  that — ^please  do, 

248 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

Giles !  But  no — I  won't  hear  it.  Let  the  subject 
cease.  And  as  you  are  my  friend  say  nothing  to  my 
father/ 

They  had  descended  into  the  vale  again  to  a  place 
where  their  ways  divided.  Winterborne  continued 
along  the  highway  which  kept  outside  the  copse,  and 
Grace  opened  a  gate  that  entered  it. 


XXIX 

5 HE  walked  up  the  soft  grassy  ride,  screened  on 
either  hand  by  nut-bushes  just  now  heavy  with  clusters 
of  twos  and  threes  and  fours.  A  little  way  on  the 
track  she  pursued  was  crossed  by  a  similar  one  at 
right  angles.  Here  Grace  stopped ;  some  few  yards 
up  the  transverse  ride  the  buxom  Suke  Damson  was 
visible  —  her  gown  tucked  up  high  through  her 
pocket-hole,  and  no  bonnet  on  her  head — in  the  act 
of  pulling  down  boughs  from  which  she  was  gather- 
ing and  eating  nuts  with  great  rapidity,  her  lover 
Tim  Tangs  standing  near  her  engaged  in  the  same 
pleasant  meal. 

Crack,  crack,  went  Suke  s  jaws  every  second  or 
two.  By  an  automatic  leap  of  thought  Grace's  mind 
reverted  to  the  tooth-drawing  scene  described  by  her 
husband  ;  and  for  the  first  time  she  wondered  if  that 
narrative  were  really  true,  Susan  s  jaws  being  so  obvi- 
ously sound  and  strong.  Grace  turned  up  towards 
the  nut-gatherers,  and  conquered  her  reluctance  to 
speak  to  the  girl,  who  was  a  little  in  advance  of  Tim. 
*  Good  evening,  Susan,'  she  said. 

*  Good  evening.  Miss  Melbury  ' — (crack) 

*  Mrs.  Fitzpiers.' 

*  O  yes,  ma'am — Mrs.  Fitzpiers,'  said  Suke  with  a 
peculiar  sniff  and  curtsey. 

Grace,  not  to  be  daunted,  continued,  *  Take  care  of 
your  teeth,  Suke.     That  accounts  for  your  toothache.' 

'  O,  I  don't  know  what  an  ache  is,  either  in  tooth, 
ear,  or  head,  thank  the  Lord ' — (crack). 

250 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

*  Nor  the  loss  of  one,  either  ?  * 

*  See  for  yourself,  ma'am.*  She  parted  her  red 
lips  and  exhibited  the  whole  double  row,  full  up  and 
unimpaired. 

*  You  have  never  had  one  drawn  ? ' 

*  Never.' 

*  So  much  the  better  for  your  stomach,*  said  Mrs. 
Fitzpiers  in  an  altered  voice.  And  turning  away 
quickly  she  went  on  thinking  what  gall  she  could  drop 
into  poor  Tim  Tangs  s  honey  if  she  chose. 

As  her  husband's  character  thus  shaped  itself  under 
the  touch  of  time,  Grace  was  almost  startled  to  find 
how  little  she  suffered  from  that  jealous  excitement 
which  is  conventionally  attributed  to  all  wives  in  such 
circumstances.  But  though  possessed  by  none  of  the 
feline  wildness  which  it  was  her  moral  duty  to  experi- 
ence, she  did  not  fail  to  suspect  that  she  had  made 
a  frightful  mistake  in  her  marriage.  Acquiescence  in 
her  father's  wishes  had  been  degradation  to  herself. 
People  are  not  given  premonitions  for  nothing ;  she 
should  have  obeyed  her  impulse  on  that  early  morn- 
ing when  she  peeped  and  saw  the  figure  come  from 
Fitzplers's  door,  and  have  steadfastly  refused  her 
hand. 

O  that  plausible  tale  which  her  then  betrothed  had 
told  her  about  Suke — the  dramatic  account  of  her 
entreaties  to  him  to  draw  the  aching  enemy,  and  the 
fine  artistic  finish  he  had  given  to  the  story  by 
explaining  that  it  was  a  lovely  molar  without  a  flaw ! 

She  traced  the  remainder  of  the  woodland  track, 
dazed  by  the  complications  of  her  position.  If  his 
protestations  to  her  before  their  marriage  could  be 
believed,  her  husband  had  felt  affection  of  some  sort 
for  herself  and  this  woman  simultaneously ;  and  was 
now  again  spreading  the  same  conjoint  emotion  over 
Mrs.  Charmond  and  herself,  his  manner  being  still 
kind  and  fond  at  times.  But  surely,  rather  than  that, 
he  must  have  played  the  hypocrite  towards  her  in 
each    case    with    elaborate    completeness;    and    the 

251 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

thought  of  this  sickened  her,  for  it  involved  the  con- 
jecture that  if  he  had  not  loved  her  his  only  motive 
for  making  her  his  wife  must  have  been  her  little 
fortune. 

Yet  here  Grace  made  a  mistake,  for  the  love  of 
men  like  Fitzpiers  is  unquestionably  of  such  quality 
as  to  bear  division  and  transference.  He  had  indeed 
once  declared,  though  not  to  her,  that  on  one  occasion 
he  had  noticed  himself  to  be  possessed  by  five  distinct 
infatuations  at  the  same  time.  It  this  were  true,  his 
differed  from  the  highest  affection  as  the  lower  orders 
of  the  animal  world  differ  from  advanced  organisms, 
partition  causing  not  death  but  a  multiplied  existence. 
He  had  loved  her  sincerely  in  his  selfish  way,  and 
had  by  no  means  ceased  to  love  her  now.  But  such 
double  and  treble -barrelled  hearts  were  naturally 
beyond  her  conception. 

Of  poor  Suke  Damson  Grace  thought  no  more. 
She  had  had  her  day. 

*  If  he  does  not  love  me  I  will  not  love  him ! '  said 
Grace  proudly. 

And  though  these  were  mere  words  it  was  a  some- 
what formidable  thing  for  Fitzpiers  that  her  heart  was 
approximating  to  a  state  in  which  it  might  be  possible 
to  carry  them  out.  That  very  absence  of  hot  jealousy 
in  her  which  made  his  courses  so  easy,  and  on  which, 
indeed,  he  congratulated  himself,  meant,  unknown  to 
either  wife  or  husband,  more  mischief  than  the  incon- 
venient watchfulness  of  a  jaundiced  eye. 

Her  sleep  that  night  was  nervous.  The  wing 
allotted  to  her  and  her  husband  had  never  seemed  so 
lonely.  At  last  she  got  up,  put  on  her  dressing-gown, 
and  went  downstairs.  Her  father,  who  slept  lightly, 
heard  her  descend,  and  came  to  the  stair-head. 

'Is  that  you,  Grace?  What's  the  matter?'  he 
said. 

'  Nothing  more  than  that  I  am  restless.  Edred  is 
detained  by  a  case  in  White-Hart  Vale.* 

*  But  how's  that  ?     I    met  the  woman's  husband 

252 


w: 


THE  WOODLANDERS 


going  to  Great  Hintock  just  afore  bedtime ;  and  she 
was  going  on  well,  and  the  doctor  gone  then.* 

'  Then  he's  detained  somewhere  else,'  said  Grace. 
*  Never  mind  me ;  he  will  soon  be  home.  I  expect 
him  about  one.' 

She  went  back  to  her  room,  and  dozed  and  woke 
several  times.  One  o'clock  had  been  the  hour  of  his 
return  on  the  last  occasion ;  but  it  had  passed  now  by 
a  long  way,  and  still  Fitzpiers  did  not  come.  Just 
before  dawn  she  heard  the  men  stirring  in  the  yard, 
and  the  flashes  of  their  lanterns  spread  every  now 
and  then  through  her  window-blind.  She  remembered 
that  her  father  had  told  her  not  to  be  disturbed  if  she 
noticed  them,  as  they  would  be  rising  early  to  send 
off  four  loads  of  hurdles  to  a  distant  sheep- fair. 
Peeping  out  she  saw  them  bustling  about,  the  hollow- 
turner  among  the  rest ;  he  was  loading  his  wares — 
wooden  bowls,  dishes,  spigots,  spoons,  cheese-vats, 
funnels  and  so  on — upon  one  of  her  father's  waggons, 
who  carried  them  to  the  fair  for  him  every  year  out  of 
neighbourly  kindness. 

The  scene  and  the  occasion  would  have  enlivened 
her  but  that  her  husband  was  still  absent,  though  it 
was  now  five  o'clock.  She  could  hardly  suppose  him, 
whatever  his  infatuation,  to  have  prolonged  to  a  later 
hour  than  ten  an  ostensibly  professional  call  on  Mrs. 
Charmond  at  Middleton  ;  and  he  could  have  ridden 
home  in  two  hours.  What  then  had  become  of  him  ? 
That  he  had  been  out  the  greater  part  of  the  two 
preceding  nights  added  to  her  uneasiness. 

She  dressed  herself,  descended,  and  went  out,  the 
weird  twilight  of  advancing  day  chilling  the  rays  from 
the  lanterns,  and  making  the  men's  faces  wan.  As 
soon  as  Melbury  saw  her  he  came  round,  showing  his 
alarm. 

*  Edred  is  not  come,*  she  said.  *  And  I  have 
reason  to  know  that  he's  not  attending  anybody.  He 
has  had  no  rest  for  two  nights  before  this.  I  was 
going  to  the  top  of  the  hill  to  look  for  him.' 

253 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

*  I'll  come  with  you,*  said  Melbury. 

She  begged  him  not  to  hinder  himself;  but  he 
insisted,  for  he  saw  a  peculiar  and  rigid  gloom  in  her 
face  over  and  above  her  uneasiness,  and  did  not  like 
the  look  of  it.  Telling  the  men  he  would  be  with 
them  again  soon  he  walked  beside  her  into  the 
turnpike  road,  and  partly  up  the  way  whence  she  had 
watched  Fitzpiers  the  night  before  as  he  skirted  the 
Great  Blackmoor  or  White- Hart  Valley. 

They  halted  beneath  a  half-dead  oak,  hollow  and 
disfigured  with  white  tumours,  its  roots  spreading 
out  like  claws  grasping  the  ground.  A  chilly  wind 
circled  round  them,  upon  whose  currents  the  seeds  of 
a  neighbouring  lime-tree,  supported  parachute-wise 
by  the  wing  attached,  flew  out  of  the  boughs  down- 
ward like  fledglings  from  their  nest.  The  vale  was 
wrapped  in  a  dim  atmosphere  of  unnaturalness,  and 
the  east  was  like  a  livid  curtain  edged  with  pink. 
There  was  no  sign  nor  sound  of  Fitzpiers. 

*  It  is  no  use  standing  here,'  said  her  father.  *  He 
may  come  home  fifty  ways.  .  .  .  Why,  look  here — 
here  be  Darling's  tracks — turned  homeward  and  nearly 
blown  dry  and  hard  !  He  must  have  come  in  hours 
ago  without  your  seeing  him.* 

*  He  has  not  done  that,'  said  she. 

They  went  back  hastily.  On  entering  their  own 
gates  they  perceived  that  the  men  had  left  the 
waggons,  and  were  standing  round  the  door  of  the 
stable  which  had  been  appropriated  to  the  doctor's 
use. 

*  Is  there  anything  the  matter  ?  *  cried  Grace. 

*  O  no,  ma'am.  All's  well  that  ends  well,'  said  old 
Timothy  Tangs.  *  I've  heard  of  such  things  before — 
amongst  workfolk,  though  not  amongst  your  gentle- 
people — that's  true.* 

They  entered  the  stable,  and  saw  the  pale  shape 
of  Darling  standing  in  the  middle  of  her  stall,  with 
Fitzpiers  on  her  back,  sound  asleep.  Darling  was 
munching  hay  as  well  as  she  could  with  the  bit  in  her 

254 


I 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

mouth,  and  the  reins,  which  had  fallen  from  Fitzpiers's 
hand,  hung  upon  her  neck. 

Grace  went  and  touched  his  hand ;  shook  it, 
before  she  could  arouse  him.  He  moved,  started, 
opened  his  eyes,  and  exclaimed,  *  Ah,  Felice.  .  .  .  O, 
it's  Grace.  I  could  not  see  in  the  gloom.  What — am 
I  in  the  saddle  ! ' 

*  Yes,' said  she.     *  How  do  you  come  here?' 

He  collected  his  thoughts,  and  in  a  few  minutes 
stammered  as  he  began  dismounting :  *  I  was  riding 
along  homeward  through  the  Vale,  very,  very  sleepy, 
having  been  up  so  much  of  late.  When  I  came 
opposite  Lydden  Spring  the  mare  turned  her  head 
that  way  as  if  she  wanted  to  drink.  I  let  her  go  in, 
and  she  drank ;  I  thought  she  would  never  finish. 
While  she  was  drinking  the  clock  of  Newland 
Buckton  church  struck  twelve.  I  distinctly  remember 
counting  the  strokes.  From  that  moment  I  posi- 
tively recollect  nothing  till  I  saw  you  here  by  my 
side.' 

*The  name!  If  it  had  been  any  other  horse 
you'd  have  had  a  broken  neck ! '  murmured  Melbury. 

*  'Tis  wonderful,  sure,  how  a  quiet  boss  will  bring  a 
man  home  at  such  times  ! '  said  John  Upjohn.  'And — 
what's  more  wonderful  than  keeping  your  seat  in  a 
deep  slumbering  sleep — I've  knowed  men  drowze  off 
walking  home  from  randies  where  the  beer  and  other 
liquors  have  gone  round  well,  and  keep  walking  for 
more  than  a  mile  on  end  without  waking.  Well, 
doctor,  'tis  a  mercy  you  wasn't  a-drownded,  or  a- 
splintered,  or  a-hanged  up  to  a  tree  like  Absalont 
— also  a  handsome  gentleman  like  yerself,  as  the 
prophets  say ! ' 

*  True,*  murmured  old  Timothy  piously,  *  from  the 
sole  of  his  boots  to  the  crown  of  his  hat  there  was  no 
blemish  in  him  ! ' 

*  Or  leastwise  you  might  ha'  been  a-wounded  into 
tatters  a'most,  and  no  brother-tradesman  to  jine  your 
few  limbs  together  within  seven  mile  1  * 

255 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

Whilst  this  impressive  address  was  proceeding 
Fitzpiers  had  dismounted,  and  taking  Grace's  arm 
walked  stiffly  indoors  with  her.  Melbury  stood 
staring  at  the  horse,  which,  in  addition  to  being  very 
weary,  was  spattered  with  mud.  Whilst  they  were 
rubbing  down  the  mare  Melbury's  mind  coupled  with 
the  mud,  which  was  not  local,  the  name  he  had  heard 
unconsciously  muttered  by  the  surgeon  when  Grace 
took  his  hand — *  Felice.'  Who  was  Felice  ?  Why, 
Mrs.  Charmond  ;  and  she,  as  he  knew,  was  staying 
at  Middleton. 

Melbury  had  indeed  pounced  upon  the  image  that 
filled  Fitzpiers's  half-awakened  soul — wherein  there 
had  been  a  retrospect  of  a  recent  interview  on  a  starlit 
lawn  with  a  capriciously  passionate  woman,  who  had 
begged  him  not  to  come  there  again  in  tones  whose 
modulation  incited  him  to  disobey,  *  What  are  you 
doing  here  ?  Why  do  you  pursue  me  ?  Another 
belongs  to  you.  If  they  were  to  see  you  getting 
over  the  fence  they  would  seize  you  as  a  thief ! ' 
And  she  had  turbulently  admitted  to  his  wringing 
questions  that  her  visit  to  Middleton  had  been  under- 
taken less  because  of  the  invalid  relative  than  in 
shamefaced  fear  of  her  own  weakness  if  she  remained 
near  his  home.  A  triumph  then  it  was  to  Fitzpiers, 
poor  and  hampered  as  he  had  become,  to  recognize 
his  real  conquest  of  this  beauty,  delayed  so  many 
years.  His  was  the  passion  of  Congreve's  Millamant, 
whose  delight  lay  in  seeing  *  the  heart  which  others 
bled  for,  bleed  for  me.' 

When  the  horse  had  been  attended  to  Melbury 
stood  uneasily  here  and  there  about  his  premises  ;  he 
was  rudely  disturbed  in  the  comfortable  views  which 
had  lately  possessed  him  on  his  domestic  concerns. 
It  is  true  that  he  had  for  some  days  discerned  that 
Grace  more  and  more  sought  his  company,  preferred 
supervising  his  kitchen  and  bakehouse  with  her  step- 
mother to  occupying  herself  with  the  lighter  details 
of  her  own  apartments.     She  seemed  no  longer  able 

256 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

to  find  in  her  own  hearth  an  adequate  focus  for  her 
life,  and  hence,  like  a  weak  queen-bee  after  leading 
off  to  an  independent  home,  had  hovered  again  into 
the  parent  hive.  But  he  had  not  construed  these  and 
other  incidents  of  the  kind  till  now. 

Something  was  wrong  in  the  homestead.  A 
ghastly  sense  beset  him  that  he  alone  would  be 
responsible  for  whatever  unhappiness  should  be 
brought  upon  her  for  whom  he  almost  solely  lived ; 
whom  to  retain  under  his  roof  he  had  faced  the 
numerous  inconveniences  involved  in  giving  up  the 
best  part  of  his  house  to  Fitzpiers.  There  was  no 
room  for  doubt  that,  had  he  allowed  events  to  take 
their  natural  course  she  would  have  accepted  Winter- 
borne,  and  realized  his  old  dream  of  restitution  to  that 
young  man's  family. 

That  Fitzpiers  would  allow  himself  to  look  for  a 
moment  on  any  other  creature  than  Grace  filled 
Melbury  with  grief  and  astonishment.  In  the  simple 
life  he  had  led  it  had  scarcely  occurred  to  him  that 
after  marriage  a  man  might  be  faithless.  That  he 
could  sweep  to  the  heights  of  Mrs.  Charmond  s  posi- 
tion, lift  the  veil  of  I  sis,  so  to  speak,  would  have 
amazed  Melbury  by  its  audacity  if  he  had  not  sus- 
pected encouragement  from  that  quarter.  What  could 
he  and  his  simple  Grace  do  to  countervail  the  passions 
of  those  two  sophisticated  beings  —  versed  in  the 
world's  ways,  armed  with  every  apparatus  for  victory  ? 
In  such  an  encounter  the  homely  timber-dealer  felt 
as  inferior  as  a  savage  with  his  bow  and  arrows  to 
the  precise  weapons  of  modern  warfare. 

Grace  came  out  of  the  house  as  the  morning  drew 
on.  The  village  was  silent,  most  of  the  folk  having 
gone  to  the  fair.  Fitzpiers  had  retired  to  bed,  and 
was  sleeping  off  his  fatigue.  She  went  to  the  stable 
and  looked  at  poor  Darling :  in  all  probability  Giles 
Winterborne,  by  obtaining  for  her  a  horse  of  such 
intelligence  and  docility,  had  been  the  means  of 
saving   her  husband's   life.      She   paused    over    the 

257 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

strange  thought ;  and  then  there  appeared  her  father 
behind  her. 

She  saw  that  he  knew  things  were  not  as  they 
ought  to  be,  from  the  troubled  dulness  of  his  eye, 
and  from  his  face,  different  points  of  which  had 
motions,  twitchings,  and  tremblings,  unknown  to 
himself  and  involuntary. 

*  He  was  detained,  I  suppose,  last  night  .'**  said 
Melbury. 

*  O  yes  ;  a  bad  case  in  the  Vale,*  she  replied  calmly. 

*  Nevertheless  he  should  have  stayed  at  home.' 

*  But  he  couldn't,  father.' 

Her  father  turned  away.  He  could  hardly  bear  to 
see  his  whilom  truthful  girl  brought  to  the  humiliation 
of  having  to  talk  like  that. 

That  night  carking  care  sat  beside  Melbury's 
pillow,  and  his  stiff  limbs  tossed  at  its  presence. 

*  I  can't  lie  here  any  longer,'  he  muttered.  Strik- 
ing a  light  he  wandered  about  the  room.  *  What 
have  I  done,  what  have  I  done  for  her ! '  he  said  to 
his  wife.  *  I  had  long  planned  that  she  should  marry 
the  son  of  the  man  I  wanted  to  make  amends  to ;  do 
ye  mind  how  I  told  you  all  about  it,  Lucy,  the  night 
before  she  came  home  ?  Ah !  but  I  was  not  content 
with  doing  right,  I  wanted  to  do  more  ! ' 

*  Don't  raft  yourself  without  good  need,  George,' 
she  replied.  *  I  won't  quite  believe  that  things  are 
so  much  amiss.  I  won't  believe  that  Mrs.  Charmond 
has  encouraged  him.  Even  supposing  she  has  en- 
couraged a  great  many,  she  can  have  no  motive  to 
do  it  now.  What  so  likely  as  that  she  is  not  yet 
quite  well,  and  doesn't  care  to  let  another  doctor 
come  near  her  ?  ' 

He  did  not  heed.  *  Grace  used  to  be  so  busy 
every  day  with  fixing  a  curtain  here  and  driving  a 
tin-tack  there;  but  she  cares  for  no  employment  now!' 

'  Do  you  know  anything  of  Mrs.  Charmond's  past 
history  ?  Perhaps  that  would  throw  some  light  upon 
things.      Before  she  came  here  as  the  wife  of  old 

258 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

Charmond  four  or  five  years  ago,  not  a  soul  seems 
to  have  heard  aught  of  hen  Why  not  make  in- 
quiries ?  And  then  do  ye  wait  and  see  more  ;  there'll 
be  plenty  of  opportunity.  Time  enough  to  cry  when 
you  know  'tis  a  crying  matter  ;  'tis  bad  to  meet  troubles 
half  way.* 

There  was  some  good  sense  in  the  notion  of  seeing 
further.  Melbury  resolved  to  inquire  and  wait,  hoping 
still,  but  oppressed  between  whiles  with  much  fear. 


XXX 

Examine  Grace  as  her  father  might,  she  would 
admit  nothing.  For  the  present,  therefore,  he  simply- 
watched. 

The  suspicion  that  his  darling  child  was  slighted 
wrought  almost  a  miraculous  change  in  Melbury's 
nature.  No  man  so  furtive  for  the  time  as  the  in- 
genuous countryman  who  finds  that  his  ingenuousness 
has  been  abused.  Melbury's  heretofore  confidential 
candour  towards  his  gentlemanly  son-in-law  was  dis- 
placed by  a  feline  stealth  that  did  injury  to  his  every 
action,  thought,  and  mood. 

He  knew  that  a  woman  once  given  to  a  man  for 
life  took,  as  a  rule,  her  lot  as  it  came,  and  made  the 
best  of  it,  without  external  interference ;  but  for  the 
first  time  he  asked  himself  why  this  so  generally 
should  be  done.  Besides,  this  case  was  not,  he  argued, 
like  ordinary  cases.  Leaving  out  the  question  of 
Grace  being  anything  but  an  ordinary  woman,  her 
peculiar  situation,  as  it  were  in  mid-air  between  two 
storeys  of  society,  together  with  the  loneliness  of 
Hintock,  made  a  husband's  neglect  a  far  more  tragical 
matter  to  her  than  it  would  be  to  one  who  had  a  large 
circle  of  friends  to  fall  back  upon.  Wisely  or  unwisely, 
and  whatever  other  fathers  did,  he  resolved  to  fight 
his  daughter's  battle  still. 

Mrs.  Charmond  had  returned.  But  Hintock 
House  scarcely  gave  forth  signs  of  life,  so  quietly  had 
she  re-entered  it.  Autumn  drew  shiveringly  to  its 
end.      One  day  something  seemed  to  be  gone  from 

260 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

the  gardens;  the  tenderer  leaves  of  vegetables  had 
shrunk  under  the  first  smart  frost,  and  hung  like 
faded  linen  rags ;  the  forest  leaves,  which  had  been 
descending  at  leisure,  descended  in  haste  and  in 
multitudes,  and  all  the  golden  colours  that  had  hung 
overhead  were  now  crowded  together  in  a  degraded 
mass  underfoot,  where  the  fallen  myriads  got  redder 
and  hornier,  and  curled  themselves  up  to  rot.  The 
only  suspicious  features  in  Mrs.  Charmond's  existence 
at  this  season  were  two ;  the  first,  that  she  lived  with 
no  companion  or  relative  about  her,  which  considering 
her  age  and  attractions  was  somewhat  unusual  conduct 
for  a  young  widow  in  a  lonely  country  house ;  the 
other,  that  she  did  not,  as  in  previous  years,  start 
from  Hintock  to  winter  abroad.  In  Fitzpiers,  the 
only  change  from  his  last  autumn  s  habits  lay  in  his 
abandonment  of  night  study ;  his  lamp  never  shone 
from  his  new  dwelling  as  from  his  old. 

If  the  suspected  ones  met  it  was  by  such  adroit 
contrivances  that  even  Melbury's  vigilance  could  not 
encounter  them  together.  A  simple  call  at  her  house 
by  the  doctor  had  nothing  irregular  about  it,  and  that 
he  had  paid  two  or  three  such  calls  was  certain.  What 
had  passed  at  those  interviews  was  known  only  to  the 
parties  themselves ;  but  that  Felice  Charmond  was 
under  some  one's  influence  Melbury  soon  had  oppor- 
tunity of  perceiving. 

Winter  had  come  on.  Owls  began  to  be  noisy  in 
the  mornings  and  evenings,  and  flocks  of  wood-pigeons 
made  themselves  prominent  again.  On  a  day  in 
February,  about  six  months  after  the  marriage  of 
Fitzpiers,  Melbury  was  returning  from  Great  Hintock 
on  foot  down  to  Little  Hintock,  when  he  saw  before 
him  the  surgeon  also  walking.  Melbury  would  have 
overtaken  him,  but  at  that  moment  Fitzpiers  turned 
in  through  a  gate  to  one  of  the  rambling  drives 
among  the  trees  at  this  side  of  the  wood,  which  led 
to  nowhere  in  particular,  and  the  beauty  of  whose 
serpentine  curves  was  the  only  justification  of  their 

261 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

existence.  Felice  almost  simultaneously  trotted  into 
the  road  ahead  of  the  timber-dealer,  in  a  little  basket- 
carriage  which  she  sometimes  drove  about  the  estate, 
unaccompanied  by  a  servant.  She  turned  in  at  the 
same  gate  without  having  seen  either  Melbury  or, 
apparently,  Fitzpiers. 

Melbury  was  soon  at  the  spot,  despite  his  aches 
and  his  sixty  years.  Mrs.  Charmond  had  come  up 
with  the  doctor,  inside  the  gate,  who  was  standing 
immediately  behind  the  carriage.  She  had  turned  to 
him,  her  arm  being  thrown  carelessly  over  the  back 
of  the  seat. 

They  looked  in  each  other's  faces  without  uttering 
a  word,  an  arch  yet  gloomy  smile  wreathing  her  lips. 
Fitzpiers  clasped  her  hanging  hand,  and,  while  she 
still  remained  in  the  same  listless  attitude,  looking 
volumes  into  his  eyes,  he  stealthily  unbuttoned  her 
glove,  and  stripped  her  hand  of  it  by  rolling  back  the 
gauntlet  over  the  fingers,  so  that  it  came  off  inside 
out.  He  then  raised  her  hand  to  his  mouth,  she  still 
reclining  passively,  watching  him  as  she  might  have 
watched  a  fly  upon  her  dress.  At  last  she  said,  *  Well, 
sir,  what  excuse  for  this  disobedience  ? ' 

*  I  make  none.* 

'Then  go  your  way,  and  let  me  go  mine.'  She 
snatched  away  her  hand,  touched  the  pony  with  the 
whip,  and  left  him  standing  there,  holding  the  reversed 
glove. 

Melbury  had  not  been  seen,  and  his  first  impulse 
was  to  reveal  his  presence  to  Fitzpiers,  and  upbraid 
him  bitterly.  But  a  moment's  thought  was  sufficient 
to  show  him  the  futility  of  any  such  simple  proceeding. 
There  was  not,  after  all,  so  much  in  what  he  had 
witnessed  as  in  what  that  scene  might  be  the  surface 
and  froth  of — probably  a  state  of  mind  which  censure 
aggravates  rather  than  cures.  Moreover,  he  said  to 
himself  that  the  point  of  attack  should  be  the  woman, 
if  either.  He  therefore  kept  out  of  sight,  and  musing 
sadly,  even  tearfully — for  he  was  meek  as  a  child  in 

262 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

matters  concerning  his  daughter — continued  his  way 
towards  Hintock. 

The  insight  which  is  bred  of  deep  sympathy  was  \  / 
never  more   finely  exemplified  than  in  this  instance.  ,( 
Through  her  guarded  manner,  her  dignified  speech,    ^ 
her  placid  countenance,  he  discerned  the  interior  of 
Grace's  life  only  too  truly,  hidden  as  were  its  incidents 
from  every  outer  eye. 

These  incidents  had  become  painful  enough.  Fitz- 
piers  had  latterly  developed  an  irritable  discontent 
which  vented  itself  in  monologues  when  Grace  was 
present  to  hear  them.  The  early  morning  of  this  day 
had  been  dull,  after  a  night  of  wind,  and  on  looking 
out  of  the  window  in  the  grey  grim  dawn  Fitzpiers 
had  observed  some  of  Melbury's  men  dragging  away 
a  large  limb  which  had  been  snapped  otf  a  beech- 
tree.      Everything  was  cold  and  colourless. 

*  My  good  God ! '  he  said,  as  he  stood  in  his 
dressing-gown.     *  This  is  life  ! ' 

He  did  not  know  whether  Grace  was  awake  or 
not,  and  he  would  not  turn  his  head  to  ascertain. 
'  Ah,  Edred,'  he  went  on  to  himself,  '  to  clip  your  own 
wings  when  you  were  free  to  soar !  .  .  .  But  I  could 
not  rest  till  1  had  done  it.  Why  do  I  never  recognize 
an  opportunity  till  I  have  missed  it,  nor  the  good  or 
ill  of  a  step  till  it  is  irrevocable  ?  ,  .  ,   I  fell  in  love ! ' 

Grace  moved.  He  thought  she  had  heard  some 
part  of  his  soliloquy.  He  was  sorry — though  he  had 
not  taken  any  precaution  to  prevent  her. 

He  expected  a  scene  at  breakfast,  but  she  only  ex- 
hibited an  extreme  reserve.  It  was  enough,  however, 
to  make  him  repent  that  he  should  have  done  anything 
to  produce  discomfort ;  for  he  attributed  her  manner 
entirely  to  what  he  had  said.  But  Grace's  manner 
had  not  its  cause  either  in  his  sayings  or  in  his 
doings.  She  had  not  heard  a  single  word  of  his 
regrets.  Something  even  nearer  home  than  her 
husband's  blighted  prospects — if  blighted  they  were — 
was  the  origin  of  her  mood. 

263 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

She  had  made  a  discovery — one  which  to  a  girl  of 
her  nature  was  almost  appalling.  She  had  looked 
into  her  heart,  and  found  that  her  early  interest  in 
Giles  Winterborne  had  become  revitalized  into  growth 
by  her  widening  perceptions  of  what  was  great  and 
little  in  life.  His  homeliness  no  longer  offended  her 
acquired  tastes ;  his  comparative  want  of  so-called 
culture  did  not  now  jar  on  her  intellect ;  his  country 
dress  even  pleased  her  eye ;  his  exterior  roughness 
fascinated  her.  Having  discovered  by  marriage  how 
much  that  was  humanly  not  great  could  co-exist 
with  attainments  of  an  exceptional  order,  there 
was  a  revulsion  in  her  sentiments  from  all  that  she 
had  formerly  clung  to  in  this  kind.  Honesty,  good- 
ness, manliness,  tenderness,  devotion,  for  her  only 
existed  in  their  purity  now  in  the  breasts  of  un- 
varnished men  ;  and  here  was  one  who  had  mani- 
fested such  towards  her  from  his  youth  up. 

There  was,  further,  that  never-ceasing  pity  in 
her  soul  for  Giles  as  a  man  whom  she  had  wronged 
— a  man  who  had  been  unfortunate  in  his  worldly 
transactions ;  who  notwithstanding  these  things,  had, 
like  Hamlet's  friend,  borne  himself  throughout  his 
scathing 

*  As  one,  in  suffering  all,  that  suffers  nothing,' 

investing  himself  thereby  with  a  real  touch  of  sublimity. 
It  was  these  perceptions,  and  no  subtle  catching  of  her 
husband's  murmurs,  that  had  bred  the  abstraction 
visible  in  her. 

When  her  father  approached  the  house  after 
witnessing  the  interview  between  Fitzpiers  and  Mrs. 
Charmond,  Grace  was  looking  out  of  her  sitting-room 
window,  as  if  she  had  nothing  to  do,  or  think  of,  or 
care  for.     He  stood  still. 

*  Ah,  Grace,*  he  said,  regarding  her  fixedly. 

*  Yes,  father,'  she  murmured. 

*  Waiting  for  your  dear  husband  ?  *  he  inquired, 
speaking  with  the  sarcasm  of  pitiful  affection. 

264 


THE  VVOODLAxNDERS 

*0  no — not  especially.  He  has  a  great  many 
patients  to  see  this  afternoon.* 

Melbury  came   quite  close.      *  Grace,  what's  the 

use  of  talking  like  that  when  you  know ?     Here, 

come  down  and  walk  with  me  out  in  the  garden, 
child.' 

He  unfastened  the  door  in  the  ivy-laced  wall,  and 
waited.  This  apparent  indifference  alarmed  him. 
He  would  far  rather  that  she  had  rushed  in  all  the  fire 
of  jealousy  to  Hintock  House  regardless  of  con- 
ventionality, confronted  and  attacked  Felice  Charmond 
unguibus  et  rostro,  and  accused  her  even  in  exag- 
gerated shape  of  stealing  away  her  husband.  Such  a 
storm  might  have  cleared  the  air. 

She  emerged  in  a  minute  or  two,  and  they  went 
into  the  garden  together.  '  You  know  as  well  as  I  do,* 
he  resumed,  *  that  there  is  something  threatening 
mischief  to  your  life,  and  yet  you  pretend  you  do  not. 
Do  you  suppose  I  don't  see  the  trouble  in  your  face 
every  day.'*  I  am  very  sure  that  this  quietude  is 
wrong  conduct  in  you.  You  should  look  more  into 
matters.' 

*  I  am  quiet  because  my  sadness  is  not  of  a  nature 
to  stir  me  to  action.' 

Melbury  wanted  to  ask  her  a  dozen  questions — 
did  she  not  feel  jealous.'*  was  she  not  indignant? — 
but  a  natural  delicacy  restrained  him.  '  You  are  very 
tame  and  let-alone,  I  am  bound  to  say,'  he  remarked 
pointedly. 

*  I  am  what  I  feel,  father,*  she  repeated. 

He  glanced  at  her,  and  there  returned  upon  his 
mind  the  scene  of  her  offering  to  wed  Winterborne 
instead  of  Fitzpiers  in  the  last  days  before  her 
marriage  ;  and  he  asked  himself  if  it  could  be  the  fact 
that  she  loved  Winterborne  now  that  she  had  lost  him 
more  than  she  had  ever  done  when  she  was  com- 
paratively free  to  choose  him. 

'  What  would  you  have  me  do  ?  *  she  asked  in  a 
low  voice, 

265 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

He  recalled  his  mind  from  the  retrospective  pain 
to  the  practical  matter  before  them.  *  I  would  have 
you  go  to  Mrs.  Charmond,'  he  said. 

'Go  to  Mrs.  Charmond — what  for?*  said  she. 

*  Well — if  I  must  speak  plain,  dear  Grace — to  ask 
her,  appeal  to  her  in  the  name  of  your  common 
womanhood,  and  your  many  like  sentiments  on  things, 
not  to  make  unhappiness  between  you  and  your 
husband.  It  lies  with  her  entirely  to  do  one  or  the 
other — that  I  can  see.' 

Grace's  face  had  heated  at  her  father's  words,  and 
the  very  rustle  of  her  skirts  upon  the  box-edging 
bespoke  disdain.  *  I  shall  not  think  of  going  to  her, 
father — of  course,  I  could  not ! '  she  answered. 

*  Why — don't  'ee  want  to  be  happier  than  you  be 
at  present.'^'  said  Melbury,  more  moved  on  her 
account  than  she  was  herself. 

'  I  don't  wish  to  be  more  humiliated.  If  I  have 
anything  to  bear  I  can  bear  it  in  silence.' 

'  But,  my  dear  maid,  you  are  too  young — you  don't 
know  what  the  present  state  of  things  may  lead  to. 
Just  see  the  harm  done  a'ready  !  Your  husband  would 
have  gone  away  to  Budmouth  to  a  bigger  practice  if 
it  had  not  been  for  this.  Although  it  has  gone  such 
a  little  way  it  is  poisoning  your  future  even  now. 
Mrs.  Charmond  is  thoughtlessly  bad,  not  bad  by 
calculation ;  and  just  a  word  to  her  now  might  save 
'ee  a  peck  of  woes.' 

'Ah,  I  loved  her  once,'  said  Grace  with  a  broken 
articulation,  '  and  she  would  not  care  for  me  then ! 
Now  I  no  longer  love  her.  Let  her  do  her  worst ;  I 
don't  care.* 

'  You  ought  to  care.  You  have  got  into  a  very 
good  position  to  start  with.  You  have  been  well 
educated,  well  tended,  and  you  have  become  the  wife 
of  a  professional  man  of  unusually  good  family.  Surely 
you  ought  to  make  the  best  of  your  position.' 

'  I  don't  see  that  I  ought.  I  wish  I  had  never 
got  into  it.     I  wish  you  had  never,  never  thought  of 

266 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

educating  me.  I  wish  I  worked  in  the  woods  like 
Marty  South !  I  hate  genteel  life,  and  I  want  to  be 
no  better  than  she  ! ' 

*  Why  ?  '  said  her  amazed  father, 

*  Because  cultivation  has  only  brought  me  incon- 
veniences and  troubles.     I  say  again,  I  wish  you  had 
never  sent  me  to  those  fashionable  schools  you  set 
your  mind  on.     It  all  arose  out  of  that,  father.     If 
had  stayed  at  home  I  should  have  married ' 

She  closed  up  her  mouth  suddenly  and  was  silent ; 
and  he  saw  that  she  was  not  far  from  crying. 

Melbury  was  much  grieved.  *  *  What,  and  would 
you  like  to  have  grown  up  as  we  be  here  in  Hintock 
— knowing  no  more,  and  with  no  more  chance  of 
seeing  good  life  than  we  have  here  ? ' 

'Yes.  I  have  never  got  any  happiness  outside 
Hintock  that  I  know  of,  and  I  have  suffered  many  a 
heartache  at  being  sent  away.  O,  the  misery  of  those 
January  days  when  I  got  back  to  school,  and  left  you 
all  here  in  the  wood  so  happy!  I  used  to  wonder 
why  I  had  to  bear  it.  And  I  was  always  a  little 
despised  by  the  other  girls  at  school,  because  they 
knew  where  I  came  from,  and  that  my  parents  were 
not  in  so  good  a  station  as  theirs.' 

Her  poor  father  was  much  hurt  at  what  he  thought 
her  ingratitude  and  intractability.  He  had  admitted 
to  himself  bitterly  enough  that  he  should  have  let 
young  hearts  have  their  way,  or  rather  should  have 
helped  on  her  affection  for  Winterborne,  and  given 
her  to  him  according  to  his  original  plan ;  but  he 
was  not  prepared  for  her  deprecating  those  attain- 
ments whose  completion  had  been  a  labour  of  years 
and  a  severe  tax  upon  his  purse. 

*  Very  well,*  he  said  with  much  heaviness  of  spirit. 
*  If  you  don't  like  to  go  to  her  I  don't  wish  to  force 
you.' 

And  so  the  question  remained  for  him  still :  How 
should  he  remedy  this  perilous  state  of  things  ?  For 
days  he  sat  in  a  moody  attitude  over  the  fire,  a  pitcher 

367 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

of  cider  standing  on  the  hearth  beside  him,  and  his 
drinking-horn  inverted  upon  the  top  of  it.  He  spent 
a  week  and  more  thus,  composing  a  letter  to  the  chief 
offender,  which  he  would  every  now  and  then  attempt 
to  complete  and  suddenly  crumple  up  in  his  hand. 


XXXI 

As  February  merged  in  March,  and  lighter  evenings 
broke  the  gloom  of  the  woodmen's  homeward  journey, 
the  Hintocks  Great  and  Little  began  to  have  ears  for 
a  rumour  of  the  events  out  of  which  had  grown  the 
timber-dealer's  troubles. 

It  took  the  form  of  a  wide  sprinkling  of  conjecture, 
wherein  no  man  knew  the  exact  truth.  Tantalizing 
phenomena,  at  once  showing  and  concealing  the 
real  relationship  of  the  persons  concerned,  caused 
a  diffusion  of  excited  surprise.  Honest  people  as 
the  woodlanders  were,  it  was  hardly  to  be  expected 
that  they  could  remain  immersed  in  the  study  of  their 
trees  and  gardens  amid  such  circumstances,  or  sit  with 
their  backs  turned  like  the  good  burghers  of  Coventry 
at  the  passage  of  the  lady. 

Rumour,  for  a  wonder,  exaggerated  little.  There 
threatened,  in  fact,  in  Grace's  case  as  in  thousands, 
the  domestic  disaster,  old  as  the  hills,  which,  with 
more  or  less  variation,  made  a  mourner  of  Ariadne,  a 
by-word  of  Vashti,  and  a  corpse  of  Amy  Dudley. 
The  incidents  were  rencounters  accidental  and  con- 
trived, stealthy  correspondence,  sudden  misgivings  on 
one  side,  sudden  self-reproaches  on  the  other.  The 
inner  state  of  the  twain  was  one  as  of  confused  noise 
that  would  not  allow  the  accents  of  politic  reason  to 
be  heard.  Determination  to  go  in  this  direction,  and 
headlong  plunges  in  that ;  dignified  safeguards,  un- 
dignified collapses ;  not  a  single  rash  step  by  deliberate 
intention,  and  all  against  judgment. 

269 


•  THE  WOODLANDERS 

It  was  all  that  Melbury  had  expected  and  feared. 
It  was  more,  for  he  had  overlooked  the  publicity  that 
would  be  likely  to  result,  as  jt  now  had  done.  ^  What 
should  he  do?  Appeal  to  Mrs.  Charmond  himself, 
since  Grace  would  not.**  He  bethought  himself  of 
Winterborne,  and  resolved  to  consult  him,  feeling  the 
strong  need  of  some  friend  of  his  own  sex  to  whom  he 
might  unburden  his  mind. 

He  had  entirely  lost  faith  in  his  own  judgment. 
That  judgment  on  which  he  had  relied  for  so  many 
years  seemed  recently,  like  a  false  companion  un- 
masked, to  have  disclosed  unexpected  depths  of  hypo- 
crisy and  speciousness  where  all  had  seemed  solidity. 
He  felt  almost  afraid  to  form  a  conjecture  on  the 
weather,  or  the  time,  or  the  fruit-promise,  so  great 
was  his  self-mistrust. 

He  set  out  to  look  for  Giles  on  a  rimy  evening 
when  the  woods  seemed  to  be  in  a  cold  sweat ;  beads 
of  perspiration  hung  from  every  bare  twig ;  the  sky 
had  no  colour,  and  the  trees  rose  before  him  as 
haggard,  grey  phantoms  whose  days  of  substantiality 
were  passed.  Melbury  seldom  saw  Winterborne  now, 
but  he  believed  him  to  be  occupying  a  lonely  hut  just 
beyond  the  boundary  of  Mrs.  Charmond's  estate, 
though  still  within  the  circuit  of  the  woodland.  The 
timber-merchant's  thin  legs  stalked  on  through  the 
pale  damp  scenery,  his  eyes  declining  on  the  dead 
leaves  of  last  year ;  while  every  now  and  then  a  hasty 
*  ay ! '  escaped  his  lips  in  reply  to  some  bitter  mental 
proposition. 

His  notice  was  attracted  by  a  thin  blue  haze  of 
smoke,  behind  which  arose  sounds  of  voices  and 
chopping  ;  bending  his  steps  that  way  he  saw  Winter- 
borne just  in  front  of  him. 

Though  few  knew  of  it,  Giles  had  had  a  serious 
illness  during  the  winter ;  but  it  just  now  happened 
that  after  being  for  a  long  time  apathetic  and  un- 
employed on  that  account  he  had  become  one  of  the 
busiest  men  in  the  neighbourhood.     It  is  often  thus; 

370 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

fallen"  friends  lost  sight  of  we  expect  to  find  starving  ; 
we  discover  them  going  on  fairly  well.  Without  any 
solicitation  or  desire  to  prpfit  on  his  part,  he  had  been 
asked  to  execute  a  very  large  order  for  hurdles  and 
other  copseware,  for  which  purpose  he  had  been 
obliged  to  buy  several  acres  of  hazel  brushwood 
standing.  He  was  now  engaged  in  the  cutting  and 
manufacture  of  the  same,  proceeding  with  the  work 
daily  like  an  automaton. 

The  hazel-tree  did  not  belie  its  name  to-day. 
The  whole  of  the  copsewood  where  the  mist  had 
cleared  returned  purest  tints  of  that  hue,  amid  which 
Winterborne  himself  was  in  the  act  of  making  a 
hurdle,  the  stakes  being  driven  firmly  into  the  ground 
in  a  row,  over  which  he  bent  and  wove  the  twigs. 
Beside  him  was  a  square,  compact  pile  like  the  altar  of 
Cain,  formed  of  hurdles  already  finished,  which  bristled 
on  all  sides  with  the  sharp  points  of  their  stakes.  At 
a  little  distance  the  men  in  his  employ  were  assisting 
him  to  carry  out  his  contract.  Rows  of  brushwood 
lay  on  the  ground  as  it  had  fallen  under  the  axe  ;  and 
a  shelter  had  been  constructed  near  at  hand,  in  front 
of  which  burnt  the  fire  whose  smoke  had  attracted 
Melbury.  The  air  was  so  dank  that  the  smoke  hung 
heavily,  and  crept  away  amid  the  bushes  without 
rising  from  the  ground. 

After  wistfully  regarding  the  scene  awhile  Melbury 
drew  nearer,  and  briefly  inquired  of  Giles  how  he 
came  to  be  so  busily  engaged,  with  an  undertone  of 
slight  surprise  that  Winterborne  could  recommence 
thriving,  even  to  this  degree,  after  being  deprived  of 
Grace.  Melbury  was  not  without  emotion  at  the 
meeting,  for  Grace's  affairs  had  divided  them,  and 
ended  their  intimacy  of  old  times. 

Winterborne  explained  just  as  briefly,  without 
raising  his  eyes  from  his  occupation  of  chopping  a 
bough  that  he  held  in  front  of  him. 

*  'Twill  be  up  in  April  before  you  get  it  all  cleared,* 
said  Melbury. 

271 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

*  Yes,  there  or  thereabouts/  said  Winterborne,  a 
chop  of  the  bill-hook  jerking  the  last  word  into  two 
pieces. 

There  was  another  interval ;  Melbury  still  looked 
on,  a  chip  from  Winterborne's  hook  occasionally  flying 
against  the  waistcoat  or  legs  of  his  visitor,  who  took 
no  heed. 

*  Ah,  Giles,  you  should  have  been  my  partner. 
You  should  have  been  my  son-in-law,'  the  old  man 
said  at  last.  *  It  would  have  been  far  better  for  her 
and  for  me  ! ' 

Winterborne  saw  that  something  had  gone  wrong 
with  his  former  friend,  and  throwing  down  the  switch 
he  was  about  to  interweave  he  responded  only  too 
readily  to  the  mood  of  the  timber-dealer.  *  Is  she  ill  ?  ' 
he  said  hurriedly. 

*  No,  no.'  Melbury  stood  without  speaking  for 
some  minutes,  and  then,  as  though  he  could  not  bring 
himself  to  proceed,  turned  to  go  away. 

Winterborne  told  one  of  his  men  to  pack  up  the 
tools  for  the  night,  and  walked  after  Melbury. 

*  Heaven  forbid  that  I  should  seem  too  inquisitive, 
sir,'  he  said,  '  especially  since  we  don't  stand  as  we 
used  to  stand  to  one  another;  but  I  hope  it  is  well 
with  them  all  over  your  way  ?  ' 

*  No,'  said  Melbury,  *no.' 

He  stopped,  and  struck  the  smooth  trunk  of  a 
young  ash-tree  with  the  flat  of  his  hand.  *  I  would 
that  his  ear  had  been  where  that  rind  is ! '  he  ex- 
claimed ;  *  I  should  have  treated  him  to  little  compared 
wi'  what  he  deserves.' 

*  Now,'  said  Winterborne,  *  don't  be  in  a  hurry  to  go 
home.  I've  put  some  ale  down  to  warm  in  my  shelter 
here,  and  we'll  sit  and  drink  it  and  talk  this  over.' 

Melbury  turned  unresistingly  as  Giles  took  his  arm, 
and  they  went  back  to  where  the  fire  was,  and  sat 
down  under  the  screen,  the  other  woodmen  having 
gone.  He  drew  out  the  ale-cup  from  the  ashes,  and 
they  drank  together. 

272 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

*  Giles,  you  ought  to  have  had  her,  as  I  said  just 
now,'  repeated  Melbury.  'I'll  tell  you  why  for  the 
first  time.' 

He  thereupon  told  WInterborne,  as  with  great 
relief,  the  story  of  how  he  won  away  Giles's  father's 
chosen  one — by  nothing  worse  than  a  lover's  cajoleries, 
it  is  true ;  but  by  means  which,  except  in  love,  would 
certainly  have  been  pronounced  cruel  and  unfair.  He 
explained  how  he  had  always  intended  to  make  re- 
paration to  WInterborne  the  father,  by  giving  Grace 
to  WInterborne  the  son ;  till  the  devil  tempted  him 
in  the  person  of  Fitzpiers,  and  he  broke  his  virtuous 
vow. 

*  How  highly  I  thought  of  that  man  to  be  sure ! 
Who'd  have  supposed  he'd  have  been  so  weak  and 
wrong-headed  as  this !  You  ought  to  have  had  her, 
Giles,  and  there's  an  end  on't.' 

WInterborne  knew  how  to  preserve  his  calm  under 
this  unconsciously  cruel  tearing  of  a  healing  wound, 
to  which  Melbury 's  concentration  on  the  more  vital 
subject  had  blinded  him.  The  young  man  endeavoured 
to  make  the  best  of  the  case  for  Grace's  sake. 

*  She  would  hardly  have  been  happy  with  me,'  he 
said,  in  the  dry,  unimpassloned  voice  under  which  he 
hid  his  feelings.  *  I  was  not  well  enough  educated : 
too  rough  in  short.  I  couldn't  have  surrounded  her 
with  the  refinements  she  looked  for,  anyhow  at  all.' 

'Nonsense — you  are  quite  wrong  there,'  said  the 
unwise  old  man  doggedly.  '  She  told  me  only  this 
day  that  she  hates  refinements  and  such  like.  All 
that  my  trouble  and  money  bought  for  her  in  that 
way  is  thrown  away  upon  her  quite.  She'd  fain  be 
like  Marty  South — think  o'  that !  That's  the  top  of 
her  ambition  !  Perhaps  she's  right.  Giles,  she  loved 
you — under  the  rind  :  and  what's  more  she  loves  'ee 
still — worse  luck  for  the  poor  maid  ! ' 

If  Melbury  only  had  known  what  fires  he  was 
recklessly  stirring  up  he  might  have  held  his  peace. 
WInterborne  was  silent  a  long  time.     The  darkness 

273 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

had  closed  in  round  them,  and  the  monotonous  drip  of 
the  fog  from  the  branches  quickened  as  it  turned  to 
hne  rain. 

*  O,  she  never  cared  much  for  me,'  Giles  managed  i 
to  say  as  he  stirred  the  embers  with  a  brand. 

'  She  did,  and  does,  I  tell  ye,*  said  the  other  obsti- 
nately. *  However,  all  that's  vain  talking  now.  What 
I  come  to  ask  you  about  is  a  more  practical  matter 
— how  to  make  the  best  of  things  as  they  are.  I  am 
thinking  of  a  desperate  step — of  calling  on  the  woman 
Charmond.  I  am  going  to  appeal  to  her  since  Grace  ^ 
will  not.  'Tis  she  who  holds  the  balance  in  her  hands 
— not  he.  While  she's  got  the  will  to  lead  him  astray ; 
he  will  follow — poor  unpractical  lofty-notioned  dreamer 
— and  how  long  she'll  do  it  depends  upon  her  whim. 
Did  ye  ever  hear  anything  about  her  character  before 
she  came  to  H  intock  ?  ' 

*  She's  been  a  bit  of  a  charmer  in  her  time,  I 
believe,'  replied  Giles,  with  the  same  level  quietude, 
as  he  regarded  the  red  coals.  *  A  body  who  has  smiled 
where  she  has  not  loved,  and  loved  where  she  has 
not  married.  Before  Mr.  Charmond  made  her  his 
wife  she  was  a  play-actress  a  short  while.' 

'Hey?  But  how  close  you  have  kept  all  this, 
Giles  !     What  besides  ?  ' 

*  Mr.  Charmond  was  a  rich  man  engaged  in  the 
iron  trade  in  the  north — twenty  or  thirty  years  older 
than  she.  He  married  her,  and  retired,  and  came 
down  here  and  bought  this  property.* 

*  Yes,  yes — I  know  all  about  that.  But  the  other 
I  did  not  know.  I  fear  it  bodes  no  good.  For  how 
can  I  go  and  appeal  to  the  forbearance  of  a  woman 
who  made  cross-loves  and  crooked  passions  her  study 
for  years  ?  I  thank  ye,  Giles,  for  finding  it  out ;  but 
it  makes  my  plan  the  harder  that  she  should  have 
belonged  to  that  unstable  tribe ! ' 

Another  pause  ensued,  and  they  looked  gloomily 
at  the  smoke  that  beat  about  the  roof  of  hurdles 
through  whose  weavings   a   large   drop   of  rain    fell 

274 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

at  intervals  and  spat  smartly  into  the  fire.  Mrs. 
Charmond  had  been  no  friend  to  Winterborne,  but 
he  was  manly,  and  it  was  not  in  his  heart  to  let  her 
be  condemned  without  a  trial. 

'  She  is  said  to  be  generous/  he  answered,  *  You 
might  not  appeal  to  her  in  vain.* 

'It  shall  be  done,'  said  Melbury,  rising.  'For 
good,  or  for  evil,  to  Mrs.  Charmond  Til  go.* , 


XXXII 

At  nine  o'clock  the  next  morning  Melbury  dressed 
himself  up  in  shining  broadcloth,  creased  with  folding 
and  smelling  of  camphor,  and  started  for  Hintock 
House.  He  was  the  more  impelled  to  go  at  once  by 
the  absence  of  his  son-in-law  in  London  for  a  few 
days,  to  attend  really  or  ostensibly  some  professional 
meetings. 

He  said  nothing  of  his  destination  either  to  his  wife 
or  to  Grace,  fearing  that  they  might  entreat  him  to 
abandon  so  risky  a  project ;  and  went  out  unobserved. 
He  had  chosen  his  time  with  a  view,  he  supposed,  of 
conveniently  catching  Mrs.  Charmond  when  she  had 
just  finished  her  breakfast,  before  any  other  business 
people  should  be  about,  if  any  came.  Plodding 
thoughtfully  onward  he  crossed  a  glade  lying  between 
Little  Hintock  woods  and  the  plantation  which  abutted 
on  the  park.  The  spot  being  open  he  was  discerned 
there  by  Winterborne  from  the  copse  on  the  next  hill, 
where  he  and  his  men  were  working.  Knowing  his 
mission  the  younger  man  hastened  down  from  the 
copse  and  managed  to  intercept  the  timber-merchant. 

*  I  have  been  thinking  of  this,  sir,'  he  said,  '  and 
I  am  of  opinion  that  it  would  be  best  to  put  off  your 
visit  for  the  present.' 

But  Melbury  would  not  even  stop  to  hear  him. 
His  mind  was  fixed,  the  appeal  was  to  be  made ;  and 
Winterborne  stood  and  watched  him  sadly  till  he 
entered  the  second  plantation  and  disappeared. 

Melbury   rang   at   the   tradesmen's   door   of    the 

276 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

manor-house,  and  was  at  once  informed  that  the  lady 
was  not  yet  visible,  as  indeed  he  might  have  guessed 
had  he  been  anybody  but  the  man  he  was.  Melbury 
said  he  would  wait,  whereupon  the  young  page 
informed  him  in  a  neighbourly  way  that,  between 
themselves,  she  was  in  bed  and  asleep. 

'  Never  mind,'  said  Melbury,  retreating  into  the 
court,  *  I'll  stand  about  here.'  Charged  so  fully  with 
his  mission  he  shrank  from  contact  with  anybody. 

But  he  walked  about  the  paved  court  till  he  was 
tired,  and  nobody  came  to  him.  He  entered  the 
house  and  sat  down  in  a  small  waiting-room,  from 
which  he  got  glimpses  of  the  kitchen-corridor,  and  of 
the  white-capped  maids  flitting  jauntily  hither  and 
thither.  They  had  heard  of  his  arrival,  but  had  not 
seen  him  enter,  and  imagining  him  still  in  the  court 
discussed  freely  the  possible  reason  of  his  calling. 
They  marvelled  at  his  temerity ;  for  though  most  of 
the  tongues  which  had  been  let  loose  attributed  the 
chief  blame  to  Fitzpiers,  these  of  her  household  pre- 
ferred to  regard  their  mistress  as  the  deeper  sinner. 

Melbury  sat  with  his  hands  resting  on  the  familiar 
knobbed  thorn  walking-stick,  whose  growing  he  had 
seen  before  he  enjoyed  its  use.  The  scene  to  him  was 
not  the  material  environment  of  his  person,  but  a 
tragic  vision  that  travelled  with  him  like  an  envelope. 
Through  this  vision  the  incidents  of  the  moment  but 
gleamed  confusedly  here  and  there,  as  an  outer  land- 
scape through  the  high-coloured  scenes  of  a  stained 
window. 

He  waited  thus  an  hour,  an  hour  and  a  half,  two 
hours.  He  began  to  look  pale  and  ill,  whereupon  the 
butler,  who  came  in,  asked  him  to  have  a  glass  of  wine. 

Melbury  roused  himself,  and  said,  *  No,  no.  Is 
she  almost  ready  ?  * 

*  She  is  just  finishing  breakfast,  Mr.  Melbury,*  said 
the  butler.  *  She  will  soon  see  you  now.  I  am  just 
going  up  to  tell  her  you  are  here.* 

*  What,  haven't  you  told  her  before  ?  *  said  Melbury. 

277 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

*0  no,*  said  the  other.  'You  see  you  came  so 
very  early.' 

At  last  the  bell  rang ;  Mrs.  Charmond  could  see 
him.  She  was  not  in  her  private  sitting-room  when 
he  reached  it,  but  in  a  minute  he  heard  her  coming 
from  the  front  staircase,  and  she  entered  where  he 
stood. 

At  this  time  of  the  morning  Mrs.  Charmond  looked 
her  full  age  and  more.  She  might  almost  have  been 
taken  for  the  typical  femme  de  trente  ans,  though  she 
was  really  not  more  than  seven  or  eight  and  twenty. 
But  the  edition  definitive  of  her  beauty  had  been 
reached,  even  if  it  were  not  a  little  worn. 

There  being  no  fire  in  the  room  she  came  in  with 
a  shawl  thrown  loosely  round  her  shoulders,  and 
obviously  without  the  least  suspicion  that  Melbury 
had  called  upon  any  other  errand  than  timber.  Felice 
was,  indeed,  the  only  woman  in  the  parish  who  had 
not  heard  the  rumour  of  her  own  weaknesses ;  she 
was  at  this  moment  living  in  a  fool's  paradise  in 
respect  of  that  rumour,  though  not  in  respect  of  the 
weaknesses  themselves,  which,  if  the  truth  be  told, 
caused  her  grave  misgivings. 

*  Do  sit  down,  Mr.  Melbury.  You  have  felled  all 
the  trees  that  were  to  be  purchased  by  you  this  season, 
except  the  oaks,  I  believe  ?  * 

*  Yes,  yes,'  said  Melbury,  in  a  reverie. 

He  did  not  take  a  chair,  and  she  also  remained 
standing.  Resting  upon  his  stick  he  began :  *  Mrs. 
Charmond,  I  have  called  upon  a  more  serious  matter 
^at  least  to  me — than  tree-throwing.  And  whatever 
mistakes  I  make  in  my  manner  of  speaking  upon  it  to 
you,  madam,  do  me  the  justice  to  set  'em  down  to  my 
want  of  practice,  and  not  to  my  want  of  care/ 

Mrs.  Charmond  looked  ill  at  ease.  She  might 
have  begun  to  guess  his  meaning  ;  but  apart  from 
that  she  had  such  dread  of  contact  with  anything 
painful,  harsh,  or  even  earnest,  that  his  preliminaries 
alone  were  enough  to  distress  her. 

278 


THE  VVOODLANDERS 

*  Yes,  what  is  it  ? '  she  said  quickly. 

*  I  am  an  old  man,'  said  Melbury,  *  that,  somewhat 
late  in  life,  God  thought  fit  to  bless  with  one  child, 
and  she  a  daughter.  Her  mother  was  a  very  dear 
wife  to  me ;  but  she  was  taken  away  from  us  when 
the  child  was  young ;  and  the  child  became  precious 
as  the  apple  of  my  eye  to  me,  for  she  was  all  I  had 
left  to  love.  For  her  sake  entirely  I  married  as  second 
wife  a  homespun  woman  who  had  been  kind  as  a 
mother  to  her.  In  due  time  the  question  of  her 
education  came  on  ;  and  I  said,  *'  I  will  educate  the 
maid  well  if  I  live  upon  bread  to  do  it."  Of  her 
possible  marriage  I  could  not  bear  to  think,  for  it 
seemed  like  a  death  that  she  should  cleave  to  another 
man,  and  grow  to  think  his  house  her  home  rather 
than  mine.  But  I  saw  it  was  the  law  of  nature  that 
this  should  be,  and  that  it  was  for  the  maid's  happi- 
ness that  she  should  have  a  home  when  I  was  gone ; 
and  I  made  up  my  mind  without  a  murmur  to  help  it 
on  for  her  sake.  In  my  youth  I  had  wronged  my 
dead  friend,  and  to  make  amends  I  determined  to  give 
her,  my  most  precious  prize,  to  my  friend's  son,  seeing 
that  they  liked  each  other  well.  Things  came  about 
which  made  me  doubt  if  it  would  be  for  my  daughter's 
happiness  to  do  this,  inasmuch  as  the  young  man  was 
poor,  and  she  was  delicately  reared.  Another  man 
came  and  paid  court  to  her — one  her  equal  in  breeding 
and  accomplishments  ;  in  every  way  it  seemed  to  me 
that  he  only  could  give  her  the  home  which  her  train- 
ing had  made  a  necessity  a'most.  I  urged  her  on,  and 
she  married  him.  But,  ma'am,  a  fatal  mistake  was  at 
the  root  of  my  reckoning ;  I  found  that  this  well-born 
gentleman  I  had  calculated  on  so  surely  was  not 
staunch  of  heart,  and  that  therein  lay  a  danger  of 
great  sorrow  for  my  daughter.  Madam,  he  saw  you, 
and  you  know  the  rest.  ...  I  have  come  to  make  no 
demands — to  utter  no  threats  ;  I  have  come  simply  as 
a  father  in  great  grief  about  his  only  child,  and  I 
beseech  you  to  deal  kindly  with  my  daughter  and  to 

279 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

do  nothing  which  can  turn  her  husband's  heart  away 
from  her  for  ever !  Forbid  him  your  presence,  ma'am, 
and  speak  to  him  on  his  duty,  as  one  with  your  power 
over  him  well  can  do :  and  I  am  hopeful  that  the  rent 
between  them  may  be  patched  up.  For  it  is  not  as  if 
you  would  lose  by  so  doing  ;  your  course  is  far  higher 
than  the  courses  of  a  professional  man  ;  and  the  grati- 
tude you  would  win  from  me  and  mine  by  your  kind- 
ness is  more  than  I  can  say ! ' 

Mrs.  Charmond  had  first  rushed  into  a  mood  of 
indignation,  on  comprehending  Melbury's  story  :  hot 
and  cold  by  turns  she  had  murmured,  *  Leave  me, 
leave  me ! '  But,  as  he  seemed  to  take  no  notice  of 
this,  his  words  began  to  influence  her,  and  when  he 
ceased  speaking  she  said  with  hurried  breath,  *  What 
has  led  you  to  think  this  of  me  ?  Who  says  I  have 
won  your  daughter's  husband  away  from  her  ?  Some 
monstrous  calumnies  are  afloat  —  of  which  I  have 
known  nothing  until  now  ! ' 

Melbury  started,  and  looked  at  her  simply :  *  But 
surely,  ma'am,  you  know  the  truth  better  than  I  ?  * 

Her  features  became  a  little  pinched,  and  the 
touches  of  powder  on  her  handsome  face  for  the  first 
time  showed  themselves  as  an  extrinsic  film. 

*  Will  you  leave  me  to  myself.-* '  she  said  with  a 
faintness  which  suggested  a  guilty  conscience.  *  This 
is  so  utterly  unexpected — you  obtain  admission  to  my 
presence  by  misrepresentation * 

'  As  God's  in  heaven,  ma'am,  that's  not  true.  I 
made  no  pretence  ;  and  I  thought  in  reason  you  would 
know  why  I  had  come.     This  gossip ' 

*  I  have  heard  nothing  of  it.  Tell  me  the  gist  of 
it,  pray ! ' 

*  Tell  you,  ma'am — not  I.  What  the  gossip  is,  no 
matter.  What  really  is,  you  know.  Set  facts  right, 
and  the  scandal  will  right  itself.  But  pardon  me — I 
speak  rough  ;  and  I  came  to  speak  gentle,  to  coax 
you,  beg  you  to  be  my  daughter's  friend.  She  loved 
you  once,  ma'am ;  you  began  by  loving  her.     Then 

280 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

you  dropped  her  without  a  reason,  and  it  hurt  her 
warm  heart  more  than  I  can  tell  ye.  But  you  were 
within  your  right  as  the  superior,  no  doubt.  But  if 
you  would  consider  her  position  now — surely,  surely, 
you  would  do  her  no  harm  !  * 

'  Certainly  I  would  do  her  no  harm — I * 

Melbury's  eye  met  hers.  It  was  curious,  but  the 
allusion  to  Grace's  former  love  for  her  seemed  to 
touch  her  more  than  all  Melbury's  other  arguments. 

*  O,  Melbury,'  she  burst  out,  *  you  have  made  me  so 
unhappy  !  How  could  you  come  to  me  like  this  !  It 
is  too  dreadful !     Now  go  away — go,  go  ! ' 

'  I  will,  and  leave  you  to  think,'  he  said,  in  a  husky 
tone. 

As  soon  as  he  was  out  of  the  room  she  went  to  a 
corner  and  there  burst  into  tears,  and  writhed,  under 
an  emotion  in  which  hurt  pride  and  vexation  mingled 
with  better  sentiments. 

Mrs.  Charmonds  mobile  spirit  was  subject  to 
these  fierce  periods  of  high  tide  and  storm.  She  had 
never  so  clearly  perceived  till  now  that  her  soul  was 
being  slowly  invaded  by  a  delirium  which  had  brought 
about  all  this;  that  she  was  losing  judgment  and 
dignity  under  it,  becoming  an  animated  impulse  only, 
a  passion  incarnate.  A  fascination  had  led  her  on  ;  it 
was  as  if  she  had  been  seized  by  a  hand  of  velvet ; 
and  this  was  where  she  found  herself — overshadowed 
with  sudden  night,  as  if  a  tornado  had  passed. 

While  she  sat,  or  rather  crouched,  unhinged  by 
the  interview,  lunch-time  came,  and  then  the  early 
afternoon,  almost  without  her  consciousness.     Then 

*  a  strange  gentleman,  who  says  it  is  not  necessary  to 
give  his  name,'  was  suddenly  announced. 

Felice  knew  who  the  strange  gentleman  was — 
that  Continental  follower  on  whom  she  had  once 
smiled,  among  others  too  numerous  to  name.  But  to 
meet  this  lover  now — the  thought  made  her  sick. 

*  I  cannot  see  him,  whoever  he  may  be  1  I  am 
not  at  home  to  anybody.' 

281 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

She  heard  no  more  of  her  visitor  :  and  shortly 
after,  in  an  attempt  to  recover  some  mental  serenity 
by  violent  physical  exercise,  she  put  on  her  hat  and 
cloak  and  went  out  of  doors,  taking  a  path  which  led 
her  up  the  slopes  to  the  nearest  spur  of  the  wood. 
She  disliked  the  woods,  but  they  had  the  advantage 
of  being  a  place  in  which  she  could  walk  comparatively 
unobserved. 


XXXIII 

There  was  agitation  that  day  in  the  lives  of  all  whom 
these  matters  concerned.  It  was  not  till  the  Hintock 
dinner-time — one  o'clock — that  Grace  discovered  her 
father's  absence  from  the  house  after  a  departure  in 
the  morning  under  somewhat  unusual  conditions.  By 
a  little  reasoning  and  inquiry  she  was  able  to  divine 
his  errand. 

Her  husband,  too,  was  away,  and  her  father  did 
not  return.  He  had,  in  truth,  gone  on  to  Sherton 
after  the  interview,  in  the  hope  of  calming  himself 
by  business ;  but  this  Grace  did  not  know.  In  an 
indefinite  dread  that  something  serious  would  arise 
out  of  Melbury's  visit  by  reason  of  the  inequalities 
of  temper  and  nervous  irritation  to  which  he  was 
subject,  something  possibly  that  would  bring  her 
much  more  misery  than  accompanied  her  present 
negative  state  of  mind,  she  left  the  house  about  three 
o'clock,  and  took  a  loitering  walk  in  the  woodland 
track  by  which  she  imagined  he  would  come  home. 
This  track  under  the  bare  trees  and  over  the  cracking 
sticks,  screened  and  roofed  in  from  the  outer  world  of 
wind  by  a  network  of  boughs,  led  her  slowly  on  till 
in  time  she  had  left  the  larger  trees  behind  her  and 
swept  round  into  the  coppice  where  Winterborne  and 
his  men  were  clearing  the  undergrowth. 

Had  Giles's  attention  been  concentrated  on  his 
hurdles  he  would  not  have  seen  her,  but  ever  since 
Melbury's  passage  across  the  opposite  glade  in  the 
morning   he   had    been    as  uneasy  and   unsettled    as 

283 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

Grace  herself;  and  her  advent  now  was  the  one 
appearance  which,  since  her  father's  avowal,  could 
arrest  him  more  than  Melbury's  return  with  his 
tidings.  Fearing  that  something  might  be  the 
matter  he  hastened  up  to  her. 

She  had  not  seen  her  old  lover  for  a  long  time, 
and  too  conscious  of  the  late  pranks  of  her  heart 
she  could  not  behold  him  calmly.  *  I  am  only  look- 
ing for  my  father,'  she  said  in  an  unnecessary  tone  of 
apology. 

*  I  was  looking  for  him  too,'  said  Giles.  *  I  think 
he  may  perhaps  have  gone  on  further.* 

'  Then  you  knew  he  was  going  to  the  House, 
Giles  ? '  she  said,  turning  her  large  tender  eyes 
anxiously  upon  him.     *  Did  he  tell  you  what  for  ?  ' 

Winterborne  glanced  doubtingly  at  her,  and  softly 
hinted  that  her  father  had  visited  him  the  evening 
before,  and  that  their  old  friendship  was  quite 
restored ;  on  which  she  guessed  the  rest. 

*  O,  I  am  glad  indeed  that  you  two  are  friends 
again  !  *  she  cried. 

And  then  they  stood  facing  each  other,  fearing 
each  other,  troubling  each  other's  souls.  Grace 
experienced  acute  regret  at  the  sight  of  these  wood- 
cutting scenes,  because  she  had  estranged  herself  from 
them  ;  craving,  even  to  its  defects  and  inconveniences, 
that  homely  sylvan  life  of  her  father  which  in  the  best 
probable  succession  of  events  would  shortly  be  denied 
her. 

At  a  little  distance,  on  the  edge  of  the  clearing, 
Marty  South  was  shaping  spar-gads  to  take  home  for 
manufacture  during  the  evenings.  Winterborne  and 
Mrs.  Fitzpiers  stood  looking  at  her  in  their  mutual 
embarrassment  at  each  other's  presence,  and  while 
doing  so  they  beheld,  approaching  the  girl,  a  lady  in 
a  dark  fur  mantle  and  black  hat,  having  a  white  veil 
tied  picturesquely  round  it.  She  spoke  to  Marty,  who 
turned  and  curtsied,  and  the  lady  fell  into  conversation 
with  her.     It  was  Mrs.  Charmond. 

384 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

After  leaving  her  house  Mrs.  Charmond  had  walked 
on,  under  the  fret  and  fever  of  her  mind,  with  more 
vigour  than  she  was  accustomed  to  show  in  her 
normal  moods  —  a  fever  which  the  solace  of  a 
cigarette  did  not  entirely  allay.  Reaching  the  cop- 
pice she  had  listlessly  observed  Marty  at  work,  when 
she  threw  away  her  cigarette  and  drew  near.  Chop, 
chop,  chop,  went  Marty's  little  bill-hook  with  never 
more  assiduity,  till  Mrs.  Charmond  spoke. 

*  Who  is  that  young  lady  I  see  talking  to  the 
woodman  yonder  ?  '  she  asked. 

*  Mrs.  Fitzpiers,  ma'am,'  said  Marty. 

*0,'  said  Mrs.  Charmond,  with  something  like  a 
start ;  for  she  had  not  recognized  Grace  at  that 
distance.     *  And  the  man  she  is  talking  to  i  ' 

*  That's  Mr.  Winterborne.' 

A  redness  stole  into  Marty's  face  as  she  mentioned 
Giles's  name,  which  Mrs.  Charmond  did  not  fail  to 
notice.     *  Are  you  engaged  to  him  ? '  she  asked  softly. 

*  No,  ma'am,'  said  Marty.  *  S/^e  was  once;  and  I 
think ' 

But  Marty  could  not  possibly  explain  the  compli- 
cations of  her  thought  on  this  matter — a  thought 
nothing  less  than  one  of  extraordinary  acuteness  for 
a  girl  so  young  and  inexperienced — namely,  that  she 
saw  danger  to  two  hearts,  naturally  honest,  in  Grace 
being  thrown  back  into  Winterborne's  society  by  the 
neglect  of  her  husband.  Mrs.  Charmond,  however, 
with  the  almost  supersensory  means  to  knowledge 
which  women  have  on  such  occasions,  quite  under- 
stood what  Marty  had  intended  to  convey ;  and  the 
picture  thus  exhibited  to  her  of  lives  drifting  awry, 
involving  the  wreck  of  poor  Marty's  hopes,  prompted 
her  yet  further  in  those  generous  resolves  which  Mel-  ^ 
bury's  remonstrances  had  stimulated. 

Full  of  such  feelings  she  bade  the  girl  good-after- 
noon, and  went  on  over  the  stumps  of  hazel  to  where 
Grace  and  Winterborne  were  standing.  They  saw  her 
approach,  and  Winterborne  said,  *  She  is  coming  to 

285 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

you;  it  is  a  good  omen.     She  dislikes  me,  so  I'll  go 
away.* 

He  accordingly  retreated  to  where  he  had  been 
working  before  Grace  came,  and  Grace's  formidable 
rival  approached  her,  each  woman  taking  the  other's 
measure  as  she  drew  near. 

*  Dear — Mrs.  Fitzpiers  !  *  said  Felice  Charmond, 
with  some  inward  turmoil  which  stopped  her  speech. 

*  I  have  not  seen  you  for  a  long  time.' 

She  held  out  her  hand  tentatively,  while  Grace 
stood  like  a  wild  animal  on  first  confronting  a  mirror 
or  other  puzzling  product  of  civilization.  Was  it 
really  Mrs.  Charmond  speaking  to  her  thus  ?  If  it 
was  she  could  no  longer  form  any  guess  as  to  what 
life  signified. 

*  I  want  to  talk  to  you,'  said  Mrs.  Charmond 
sensitively,  for  the  gaze  of  the  young  woman  had 
chilled  her  through.  *  Can  you  walk  on  with  me  till 
we  are  quite  alone  ?  * 

Sick  with  distaste  Grace  nevertheless  complied  as 
by  clockwork,  and  they  moved  evenly  side  by  side 
into  the  deeper  recesses  of  the  woods.  They  went 
further,  much  further  than  Mrs.  Charmond  had  meant 
to  go ;  but  mental  indiscipline  hindered  her  from 
beginning  her  conversation,  and  in  default  of  it  she 
kept  walking. 

'  I  have  seen  your  father,'  she  at  length  observed. 

*  And — I  am  much  troubled  by  what  he  told  me.' 

'  What  did  he  tell  you  ?  I  have  not  been  admitted 
to  his  confidence  on  anything  he  may  have  said 
to  you.' 

*  Nevertheless,  why  should  I  repeat  to  you  what 
you  can  easily  divine  ? ' 

*  True — true,'  returned  Grace  rhournfully.  *  Why 
should  you  repeat  what  we  both  have  in  our  minds 
already  ? ' 

'  Mrs.  Fitzpiers,  your  husband ' 

The  moment  that  the  speaker's  tongue  touched 
the  dangerous  subject  a  vivid  look  of  self-conscious- 

286 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

ness  flashed  over  her ;  in  which  her  heart  revealed, 
as  by  a  lightning-gleam,  what  filled  it  to  overflowing. 
So  transitory  was  the  expression  that  none  but  a 
quick-sensed  woman,  and  she  in  Grace's  position, 
would  have  had  the  power  to  catch  its  meaning. 
Upon  her  the  phase  was  not  lost. 

*  Then  you  do  love  him  ! '  she  exclaimed  in  a  tone 
of  much  surprise. 

*  What  do  you  mean,  my  young  friend  ? ' 

*  Why,'  cried  Grace,  *  I  thought  till  now  that  you 
had  only  been  cruelly  flirting  with  my  husband  to 
amuse  your  idle  moments — a  rich  lady  with  a  poor 
professional  gentleman  whom  in  her  heart  she 
despised  not  much  less  than  her  who  belongs  to 
him.  But  I  guess  from  your  manner  that  you  love 
him  desperately ;  and  I  don't  hate  you  as  I  did  before. 
.  .  .  Yes,  indeed,'  continued  Mrs.  Fitzpiers,  with  a 
trembling  tongue,  '  since  it  is  not  sport  in  your  case 
at  all  but  real — O,  I  do  pity  you,  more  than  I  despise 
you  !     For  you  will  suffer  most ! ' 

Mrs.  Charmond  was  now  as  much  agitated  as 
Grace.  *  I  ought  not  to  allow  myself  to  argue  about 
this  ! '  she  exclaimed.  '  I  demean  myself  by  doing  it. 
But  I  liked  you  once,  and  for  the  sake  of  that  time  I 
try  to  tell  you  how  mistaken  you  are !  * 

Much  of  her  confusion  resulted  from  her  wonder 
and  alarm  at  finding  herself,  in  a  sense,  dominated 
mentally  and  emotionally  by  this  simple  school-girl. 

*  I  do  not  love  him ! '  she  went  on  with  insistent 
untruth.  '  It  was  a  kindness — my  making  somewhat 
more  of  him  than  one  usually  does  of  one's  doctor. 
I  was  lonely ;  I  talked — well,  I  trifled  with  him.  I 
am  very  sorry  if  such  child's  play,  out  of  pure  friend- 
ship, has  been  a  serious  matter  to  you.  Who  could 
have  expected  it  ?     But  the  world  is  so  simple  here  !  * 

*  O,  that's  affectation,'  said  Grace,  shaking  her  head. 

*  It  is  no  use — you  /ove  him !  I  can  see  in  your  face 
that  in  this  matter  of  my  husband  you  have  not  let 
your  acts  belie  your  feelings.     During  these  last  four 

287 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

or  SIX  months  you  have  been  terribly  indiscreet,  but 
you  have  not  been  insincere ;  and  that  almost  disarms 
me.' 

*  I  have  been  insincere — if  you  will  have  the  word 
— I  mean  I  have  coquetted,  and  do  not  love  him  !  * 

But  Grace  clung  to  her  position  like  a  limpet. 
*  You  may  have  trifled  with  others ;  but  him  you  love 
as  you  never  loved  another  man  ! ' 

*  O,  well — I  won't  argue,'  said  Mrs.  Charmond, 
laughing  faintly.  *  And  you  come  to  reproach  me  for 
it,  child.?' 

*  No,'  said  Grace  magnanimously.  *  You  may  go 
on  loving  him  if  you  like — I  don't  mind  at  all.  You'll 
find  it,  let  me  tell  you,  a  bitterer  business  for  yourself 
than  for  me  in  the  end.  He'll  get  tired  of  you  soon, 
as  tired  as  can  be — you  don't  know  him  so  well  as 
I ! — and  then  you  may  wish  you  had  never  seen 
him!' 

Mrs.  Charmond  had  grown  quite  pale  and  weak 
under  this  prophecy.  It  was  extraordinary  that  Grace, 
whom  almost  every  one  would  have  characterized  as 
a  gentle  girl,  should  be  of  tougher  fibre  than  her  inter- 
locutor. 

*You  exaggerate — cruel,  silly  young  woman,*  she 
reiterated,  writhing  with  little  agonies.  *  It  is  nothing 
but  playful  friendship — nothing!  It  will  be  proved 
by  my  future  conduct.  I  shall  at  once  refuse  to  see 
him  more — since  it  will  make  no  difference  to  my 
heart,  and  much  to  my  name.' 

'  I  question  if  you  will  refuse  to  see  him  again,' 
said  Grace  dryly,  as  she  bent  a  sapling  back.  *  But 
I  am  not  incensed  against  you  as  you  are  against 
me,'  she  added,  abandoning  the  tree  to  its  natural 
perpendicular.  '  Before  I  came  I  had  been  despising 
you  for  wanton  cruelty ;  now  I  only  pity  your  weak- 
ness for  its  misplaced  affection.  When  Edred  has 
gone  out  of  the  house  in  hope  of  seeing  you,  at  season- 
able hours  and  unseasonable  ;  when  I  have  found  him 
riding  miles  and  miles  across  the  country  at  midnight, 

288 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

and  risking  his  life,  and  getting  covered  with  mud,  to 
get  a  glimpse  of  you,  I  have  called  him  a  foolish  man 
— the  plaything  of  a  finished  coquette.  I  thought  that 
what  was  getting  to  be  a  tragedy  to  me  was  a  comedy 
to  you.  But  now  I  see  that  tragedy  lies  on  your  side 
of  the  situation  no  less  than  on  mine,  and  more ;  that 
if  I  have  felt  trouble  at  my  position  you  have  felt 
anguish  at  yours ;  that  if  I  have  had  disappointments 
you  have  had  despairs.  Philosophy  may  fortify  me — 
God  help  you  / ' 

*  I  cannot  attempt  to  reply  to  your  ravings,'  re- 
turned the  other,  struggling  to  restore  a  dignity  which 
had  completely  collapsed.  *  My  acts  will  be  my  proofs. 
In  the  world  which  you  have  seen  nothing  of,  friend- 
ships between  men  and  women  are  not  unknown  ;  and 
it  would  have  been  better  both  for  you  and  your  father 
if  you  had  each  judged  me  more  respectfully,  and  left 
me  alone.  As  it  is,  I  wish  never,  never  to  see  or 
speak  to  you,  madam,  any  more ! ' 

Grace  bowed,  and  Mrs.  Charmond  haughtily  turned 
away.  The  two  went  apart  in  directly  opposite 
courses,  and  were  soon  hidden  from  each  other  by 
their  umbrageous  surroundings  and  by  the  shadows 
of  eve. 

In  the  excitement  of  their  long  argument  they  had 
walked  onward  and  zigzagged  about  without  regarding 
direction  or  distance.  All  sound  of  the  woodcutters 
had  long  since  faded  into  remoteness,  and  even  had 
not  the  interval  been  too  great  for  hearing  them  they 
would  have  been  silent  and  homeward  bound  at  this 
twilight  hour. 

But  Grace  went  on  her  course  without  any  mis- 
giving, though  there  was  much  underwood  here  with 
only  the  narrowest  passages  for  walking,  across  which 
brambles  hung.  She  had  not,  however,  traversed  this, 
the  wildest,  part  of  the  wood  since  her  childhood,  and 
the  transformation  of  outlines  had  been  great ;  old 
trees  which  once  were  landmarks  had  been  felled  or 
blown  down,  and  the  bushes  which  then  had  been 

289 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

small  and  scrubby  were  now  large  and  overhanging. 
She  soon  found  that  her  ideas  as  to  direction  were 
vague — that  she  had  indeed  no  ideas  as  to  direction  at 
all.  If  the  evening  had  not  been  growing  so  dark,  and 
the  wind  had  not  put  on  its  night-moan  so  distinctly, 
Grace  would  not  have  minded ;  but  she  was  rather 
frightened  now,  and  began  to  strike  across  hither  and 
thither  in  random  courses. 

Denser  grew  the  darkness,  more  developed  the 
wind-voices,  and  still  no  recognizable  spot  or  outlet  of 
any  kind  appeared,  nor  any  sound  of  the  Hintocks 
floated  near,  though  she  had  wandered  probably  be- 
tween one  and  two  hours,  and  began  to  be  weary.  She 
was  vexed  at  her  foolishness,  since  the  ground  she  had 
covered,  if  in  a  straight  line,  must  inevitably  have 
taken  her  out  of  the  wood  to  sorne  remote  village  or 
other ;  but  she  had  wasted  her  forces  in  counter- 
marches ;  and  now,  in  much  alarm,  wondered  if  she 
would  have  to  pass  the  night  here. 

She  stood  still  to  meditate,  and  fancied  that  between 
the  soughing  of  the  wind  she  heard  shuffling  footsteps 
on  the  leaves  heavier  than  those  of  rabbits  or  other 
startled  *  beasts  of  beating  heart '  who  lived  there. 
Though  fearing  at  first  to  meet  anybody  on  the  chance 
of  his  being  a  friend,  she  decided  that  her  fellow- 
noctambulist,  even  if  a  poacher,  would  not  injure  her, 
and  that  he  might  possibly  be  some  one  sent  to 
search  for  her.  She  accordingly  shouted  a  rather 
timid  *  Hoi ! ' 

The  cry  was  immediately  returned  by  the  other 
person ;  and  Grace  running  at  once  in  the  direction 
whence  it  came  beheld  an  indistinct  figure  hastening 
up  to  her  as  rapidly.  They  were  almost  in  each 
other's  arms  before  she  recognized  the  outline  and 
white  veil  of  her  whom  she  had  parted  from  hours 
before — Mrs.  Charmond. 

'  I  have  lost  my  way,  I  have  lost  my  way ! '  cried 
the  latter.  *  O — is  it  indeed  you  ?  I  am  so  glad  to 
meet  you  or  anybody.     I  have  been  wandering  up  and 

290 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

down  ever  since  we  parted,  and  am  nearly  dead  with 
terror  and  misery  and  fatigue  ! ' 

*  So  am  1/  said  Grace.  *  What  shall  we — shall 
we  do ! ' 

*  You  won't  go  away  from  me  ? '  asked  her  com- 
panion anxiously. 

*  No,  indeed.     Are  you  very  tired  1  * 

*  I  can  scarcely  move,  and  I  am  scratched  dread- 
fully about  the  ankles.' 

Grace  reflected.  *  Perhaps,  as  it  is  dry  underfoot, 
the  best  thing  for  us  to  do  would  be  to  sit  down  for 
half-an-hour,  and  then  start  again  when  we  have 
thoroughly  rested.  By  walking  straight  we  must  come 
^to  a  track  leading  somewhere,  before  the  morning.' 

They  found  a  clump  of  bushy  hollies  which  afforded 
a  shelter  from  the  wind,  and  sat  down  under  it,  some 
tufts  of  dead  fern,  crisp  and  dry,  that  remained  from 
the  previous  season,  forming  a  sort  of  nest  for  them. 
But  it  was  cold,  nevertheless,  on  this  March  night, 
particularly  for  Grace,  who,  with  the  sanguine  prema- 
tureness  of  youth  in  matters  of  dress,  had  considered 
it  spring-time,  and  hence  was  not  so  warmly  clad  as 
Mrs.  Charmond,  who  still  wore  her  winter  furs. 

But  after  sitting  awhile  the  latter  lady  shivered  no 
less  than  Grace  as  the  warmth  imparted  by  her  hasty 
walking  began  to  go  off;  and  they  felt  the  cold  air 
drawing  through  the  holly  leaves  which  scratched 
their  backs  and  shoulders.  Moreover  they  could  hear 
some  drops  of  rain  falling  on  the  trees,  though  none 
reached  the  nook  in  which  they  had  ensconced 
themselves. 

*  If  we  were  to  cling  close  together,'  said  Mrs. 
Charmond,  *  we  should  keep  each  other  warm.  .  .  . 
But/  she  added  in  an  uneven  voice,  *  I  suppose  you 
won't  come  near  me  for  the  world ! ' 

*  Why  not  ?  ' 

*  Because — well,  you  know.' 

*  Yes,  I   will — I  don't  hate  you  at  all.' 

They  consequently  crept  up  to  one  another,  and 

291 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

being  in  the  dark,  lonely,  and  weary,  did  what  neither 
had  dreamed  of  doing  beforehand — clasped  each  other 
closely.  Mrs.  Charmond's  furs  consoled  Grace  s  cold 
face  ;  and  each  one's  body,  as  she  breathed,  alternately 
heaved  against  that  of  her  companion  ;  while  the 
funereal  trees  rocked  and  chanted  dirges  unceasingly. 
When  a  few  minutes  had  been  spent  thus  Mrs. 
Charmond  said,  *  I  am  so  wretched ! '  in  a  heavy 
emotional  whisper. 

*  You  are  frightened,'  said  Grace.  *  But  there  is 
nothing  to  fear  ;  I  know  these  woods  well.' 

'  I  am  not  at  all  frightened  at  the  wood ;  but  I  am 
at  other  things.* 

Mrs.  Charmond  embraced  Grace  more  and  more 
tightly,  and  put  her  face  against  that  of  her  com- 
panion. The  younger  woman  could  feel  her  neigh- 
bour's breathings  grow  deeper  and  more  spasmodic,  as 
though  uncontrollable  feelings  were  germinating. 

*  After  I  had  left  you,'  Felice  went  on,  *  I  regretted 
something  I  had  said.  I  have  to  make  a  confession — 
I  must  make  it ! '  she  whispered  brokenly,  the  instinct 
to  indulge  in  warmth  of  sentiment  which  had  led  this 
woman  of  passions  to  respond  to  Fitzpiers  in  the  first 
place,  leading  her  now  to  find  luxurious  comfort  in 
opening  her  heart  to  his  wife.  *  I  said  to  you  I  could 
give  him  up  without  pain  or  deprivation — that  he  had 
only  been  my  pastime.  That  was  absolutely  untrue — 
it  was  said  to  deceive  you  !  I  could  not  do  it  without 
much  pain ;  and  what  is  more  dreadful  I  cannot  give 
him  up — even  if  I  would — of  myself  alone.' 

*  Why  ?     Because  you  love  him,  you  mean.* 
Felice  Charmond  denoted  assent  by  a  movement. 

*  I  knew  I  was  right ! '  said  Grace  exaltedly.  '  But 
that  should  not  deter  you,'  she  presently  added  in  a 
moral  tone.  *  O,  do  struggle  against  it,  and  you  will 
conquer ! ' 

*  You  are  so  simple,  so  simple !  *  cried  Felice. 
'  You  think,  because  you  guessed  my  assumed  in- 
difference to  him  to  be  a  sham,  that  you  know  the 

292 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

extremes  that  people  are  capable  of  going  to  !  But  a 
good  deal  more  may  have  been  going  on  than  you 
have  fathomed  with  all  your  insight.  I  cannot  give 
him  up  until  he  chooses  to  give  up  me !  * 

*  But  surely  you  are  the  superior  in  station  and  in 
every  way,  and  the  cut  must  come  from  you/ 

*  Tchut !  Must  I  tell  verbatim,  you  simple  child  ? 
O,  I  suppose  I  must !  It  will  eat  away  my  heart  if  I 
do  not  let  out  all,  after  meeting  you  like  this  and  find- 
ing how  guileless  you  are  ! ' 

She  thereupon  whispered  a  few  words  in  the  girl's 
ear,  and  burst  into  a  violent  fit  of  sobbing. 

Grace  started  roughly  away  from  the  shelter  of  the 
furs,  and  sprang  to  her  feet. 

*  O,  my  great  God  !  *  she  exclaimed,  thunderstruck 
at   a  revelation    transcending   her   utmost   suspicion. 

»*  He's  had  you  !  Can  it  be — can  it  be ! ' 
She  turned  as  if  to  hasten  away.  But  Felice 
Charmond's  sobs  came  to  her  ear :  deep  darkness 
circled  her  about,  the  cold  lips  of  the  wind  kissed  her 
where  Mrs.  Charmond's  warm  fur  had  been,  and  she 
did  not  know  which  way  to  go.  After  the  moment  of 
energy  she  felt  mild  again,  and  turned  to  the  motion- 
less woman  at  her  feet. 

*  Are  you  rested  }  '  she  asked,  in  what  seemed  her 
own  voice  grown  ten  years  older. 

Without  an  answer  Mrs.  Charmond  slowly  rose. 
*  You  mean  to  betray  me !  *  she  asked  out  of  the 
bitterest  depths  of  her  soul.     *  O,  fool,  fool  I  ! ' 

*  No,'  said  Grace  shortly.  *  I  mean  no  such  thing. 
But  let  us  be  quick  now.  We  have  a  serious 
undertaking  before  us.  Think  of  nothing  but  going 
straight  on.' 

They  walked  on  in  profound  silence,  pulling  back 
boughs  now  growing  wet,  and  treading  down  wood- 
bine, but  still  keeping  a  pretty  straight  course.  Grace 
began  to  be  thoroughly  worn  out,  and  her  companion 
too,  when,  on  a  sudden,  they  broke  into  the  deserted 
highway  where  the  Sherton  man  had  waited  for  Mrs, 

293 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

Dollery's  van.     Grace  recognized  the  spot  as  soon  as 
she  looked  around  her. 

*  How  we  have  got  here  I  cannot  tell,'  she  said 
with  cold  civility.  *  We  have  made  a  complete 
circuit  of  Little  Hintock.  The  hazel  copse  is  quite 
on  the  other  side.  Now  we  have  only  to  follow  the 
road.' 

They  dragged  themselves  onward,  turned  into  the 
lane,  passed  the  track  to  Little  Hintock,  and  so 
reached  the  park. 

*  Here  I  turn  back,'  said  Grace  in  the  same 
passionless  voice.     *  You  are  quite  near  home.' 

Mrs.  Charmond  stood  inert,  seeming  appalled  by 
her  late  admission. 

*  I  have  told  you  something  in  a  moment  of  irre- 
sistible desire  to  unburden  my  soul,  which  all  but  a 
fool  would  have  kept  silent  as  the  grave,'  she  said. 

*  I  cannot  help  it  now.     Is  it  to  be  a  secret,  or  do  you 
mean  war  ? ' 

*  A    secret     certainly,'     said     Grace     mournfully. 

*  How    can    you   expect    war   from   such   a   helpless, 
wretched  being  as  me  ?  ' 

*  And  I'll  do  my  best  not  to  see  him.  I  am  his 
slave  ;  but  I'll  try.' 

Grace  was  naturally  kind,  but  she  could  not  help 
using  a  small  dagger  now. 

*  Pray  don't  distress  yourself,'  she  said  with  fine 
scorn.  *  You  may  see  him  as  much  as  you  like — for 
me.*  Had  she  been  wounded  instead  of  mortified  she 
could  not  have  used  the  words  ;  but  Fitzpiers's  hold 
upon  her  heart  just  now  was  slight. 

They  parted  thus  and  there,  kissing  each  other 
almost  unintentionally,  and  Grace  went  moodily 
homeward.  Passing  Marty's  cottage  she  observed 
through  the  window  that  the  girl  was  writing  instead 
of  chopping  as  usual,  and  wondered  what  her  corre- 
spondence could  be.  Directly  afterwards  she  met 
people  in  search  of  her,  and  reached  the  house  to 
find  all  in  serious  alarm.     She  soon  explained  that 

294 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

she  had  lost  her  way,  and  her  general  depression  was 
attributed  to  exhaustion  on  that  account. 

Could  she  have  known  what  Marty  was  writing 
she  would  have  been  surprised. 

The  rumour  which  agitated  the  other  folk  of 
HIntock  had  reached  the  young  girl,  and  she  was 
penning  a  letter  to  Fitzpiers  to  tell  him  that  Mrs. 
I  Charmond's  magnificent  pile  of  hair  was  made  up  of 
the  writer's  more  largely  than  of  her  own.  It  was 
poor  Marty's  only  card,  and  she  played  it,  knowing 
nothing  of  fashion,  and  thinking  her  revelation  a  fatal 
one  for  a  lover. 


XXXIV 

It  was  at  the  beginning  of  April,  a  few  days  after 
the  meeting  between  Grace  and  Mrs.  Charmond  in 
the  wood,  that  Fitzpiers,  just  returned  from  London, 
was  travelling  from  Sherton  Abbas  to  Hintock  in  a 
hired  carriage.  In  his  eye  there  was  a  doubtful  light, 
and  the  lines  of  his  fastidious  face  showed  a  vague 
.  disquietude.  He  appeared  like  one  of  those  whose 
\  aspect  seems  to  say  to  a  beholder  that  they  have 
suffered  a  certain  wrong  in  being  born. 

His  position  was  in  truth  gloomy,  and  to  his 
impressible  mind  it  looked  even  gloomier  than  it  was. 
His  practice  had  been  slowly  dwindling  of  late,  and 
now  threatened  to  die  out  altogether,  the  undaunted 
old  Dr.  Jones  capturing  patients  up  to  Fitzpiers's 
very  door.  Fitzpiers  knew  only  too  well  the  latest 
and  greatest  cause  of  his  unpopularity ;  and  yet,  so 
illogical  is  man,  the  second  branch  of  his  sadness 
grew  out  of  a  remedial  measure  proposed  for  the 
first — a  letter  from  Felice  Charmond  imploring  him 
not  to  see  her  again.  To  bring  about  their  severance 
still  more  effectually,  she  added,  she  had  decided  upon 
almost  immediate  departure  for  the  Continent. 

The  time  was  that  dull  interval  in  a  woodlander  s 
life  which  coincides  with  great  activity  in  the  life  of 
the  woodland  itself — a  period  following  the  close  of  the 
winter  tree-cutting  and  preceding  the  barking  season, 
when  the  saps  are  just  beginning  to  heave  with  the 
force  of  hydraulic  lifts  inside  all  the  trunks  of  the 
forest. 

296 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

Wlnterborne's  contract  was  completed,  and  the 
plantations  were  deserted.  It  was  dusk :  there  were 
no  leaves  as  yet ;  the  nightingales  would  not  begin  to 
sing  for  a  fortnight ;  and  the  Mother  of  the  Months 
was  in  her  most  attenuated  phase — starved  and  bent 
to  a  mere  bowed  skeleton,  which  glided  along  behind 
the  bare  twigs  in  Fitzpiers's  company. 

When  he  reached  home  he  went  straight  up  to  his, 
wife's  sitting-room.  He  found  it  deserted  and  without 
a  fire.  He  had  mentioned  no  day  for  his  return  ; 
nevertheless  he  wondered  why  she  was  not  there 
waiting  to  receive  him. 

On  descending  to  the  other  wing  of  the  house  and 
inquiring  of  Mrs.  Melbury  he  learnt  with  much 
surprise  that  Grace  had  gone  on  a  visit  to  an  acquaint- 
ance at  Shottsford-Forum  three  days  earlier :  that 
tidings  had  on  this  morning  reached  her  father  of  her 
being  very  unwell  there,  in  consequence  of  which  he 
had  ridden  over  to  see  her. 

Fitzpiers  went  upstairs  again,  and  the  little 
drawing-room,  now  lighted  by  a  solitary  candle,  was 
not  rendered  more  cheerful  by  the  entrance  of 
Grammer  Oliver  with  an  apronful  of  wood  which  she 
threw  on  the  hearth  while  she  raked  out  the  grate  and 
rattled  about  the  fire-irons  with  a  view  to  making 
things  comfortable.  Fitzpiers,  guessing  nothing  of 
the  revelations  in  the  wood,  considered  that  Grace 
ought  to  have  let  him  know  her  plans  more  accurately 
before  leaving  home  in  a  freak  like  this.  He  went 
desultorily  to  the  window,  the  blind  of  which  had  not 
been  pulled  down,  and  looked  out  at  the  thin,  fast- 
sinking  moon,  and  at  the  stalk  of  smoke  rising  from 
the  top  of  Suke  Damson's  chimney,  signifying  that  the 
young  woman  had  just  lit  her  fire  to  prepare  supper. 

He  became  conscious  of  a  discussion  in  progress 
on  the  opposite  side  of  the  court.  Somebody  had 
looked  over  the  wall  to  talk  to  the  sawyers,  and  was 
telling  them  in  a  loud  voice  news  in  which  the  name 
of  Mrs.  Charmond  soon  arrested  his  ears. 

297 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

'Grammer,  don't  make  so  much  noise  witn  tnat 
grate,'  said  the  surgeon  ;  at  which  Grammer  reared 
herself  upon  her  knees  and  held  the  fuel  suspended  in 
her  hand,  while  Fitzpiers  half  opened  the  window. 

*  She  is  off  to  foreign  lands  again  at  last — have 
made  up  her  mind  quite  sudden -Hke — and  it  is 
thoughted  she'll  leave  in  a  day  or  two.  She's  been  all 
as  if  her  mind  were  low  for  some  days  past — with  a 
sort  of  fret  in  her  face,  as  if  she  chid  her  own  soul. 
She's  the  wrong  sort  of  woman  for  Hintock — hardly 
knowing  a  beech  from  a  woak.  But  I  don't  care  who 
the  man  is,  she's  been  a  very  kind  friend  to  me.' 

*Well — the  day  after  to-morrow  is  the  Sabbath 
day,  and  without  charity  we  be  but  tinkling  simples  ; 
but  this  I  do  say,  that  her  going  will  be  a  blessed 
thing  for  a  certain  married  couple  who  remain.' 

The  fire  was  lighted,  and  Fitzpiers  sat  down  in 
front  of  it,  restless  as  the  last  leaf  upon  a  tree.  *  A 
sort  of  fret  in  her  face,  as  if  she  chid  her  own  soul. 
Poor,  poor  Felice  !  * 

How  her  frame  must  be  pulsing  under  the  con- 
ditions of  which  he  had  just  heard  the  caricature ; 
how  her  fair  temples  must  ache ;  what  a  mood  of 
wretchedness  she  must  be  in  !  But  for  this  mixing 
up  of  his  name  with  hers,  and  her  determination  to 
sunder  their  too  close  acquaintance  on  that  account, 
she  would  probably  have  sent  for  him  professionally. 
She  was  now  sitting  alone,  suffering,  perhaps  wishing 
she  had  not  forbidden  him  to  come  again. 

Unable  to  remain  in  this  lonely  room  any  longer, 
or  to  wait  for  the  meal  which  was  in  course  of  pre- 
paration, he  made  himself  ready  for  riding,  descended 
to  the  yard,  stood  by  the  stable-door  while  Darling 
was  saddled,  and  rode  off  down  the  lane.  He  would 
have  preferred  walking,  but  was  weary  with  his  day's 
travel. 

As  he  approached  the  door  of  Marty  South's 
cottage,  which  it  was  necessary  to  pass  on  his  way, 
she  came  from  the  porch  as  if  she  had  been  awaiting 

298 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

him,  and  met  him  in  the  middle  of  the  road,  holding 
up  a  letter.  Fitzpiers  took  it  without  stopping,  and 
asked  over  his  shoulder  from  whom  it  came. 

Marty  hesitated.  *  From  me,'  she  said  with 
noticeable  firmness. 

This  letter  contained,  in  fact,  Marty's  declaration 
that  she  was  the  original  owner  of  Mrs.  Charmond's 
supplementary  locks,  and  inclosed  a  sample  from  the 
native  stock,  which  had  grown  considerably  by  this 
time.  It  was  her  long  contemplated  apple  of  discord, 
and  much  her  hand  trembled  as  she  handed  the 
document  up  to  him. 

But  it  was  impossible,  on  account  of  the  gloom, 
for  Fitzpiers  to  read  it  then,  while  he  had  the  curiosity 
to  do  so,  and  he  put  it  in  his  pocket.  His  imagina- 
tion having  already  centred  itself  on  Hintock  House, 
in  his  pocket  the  letter  remained  unopened  and 
forgotten,  all  the  while  that  Marty  was  hopefully 
picturing  its  excellent  weaning  effect  upon  him. 

He  was  not  long  in  reaching  the  precincts  of  the 
manor-house.  He  drew  rein  under  a  group  of  oaks 
commanding  a  view  of  the  front,  and  reflected  awhile. 
His  entry  would  not  be  altogether  unnatural  in  the 
circumstances  of  her  possible  indisposition  ;  but  upon 
the  whole  he  thought  it  best  to  avoid  riding  up  to  the 
door.  By  silently  approaching  he  could  retreat  un- 
observed in  the  event  of  her  not  being  alone.  He 
dismounted,  hitched  Darling  to  a  stray  bough  hanging 
a  little  below  the  general  browsing  line  of  the  trees, 
and  proceeded  to  the  door  on  foot. 

In  the  meantime  Melbury  had  returned  from 
Shottsford-Forum.  The  great  court  or  quadrangle  of 
the  timber-merchant's  house,  divided  from  the  shady 
lane  by  an  ivy-covered  wall,  was  entered  by  two  white 
gates,  one  standing  near  each  extremity  of  the  wall. 
It  had  so  happened  that  at  the  moment  when  Fitzpiers 
was  riding  out  at  the  lower  gate  on  his  way  to  the 
manor-house,  Melbury  was  approaching  the  upper 
gate  to  enter  it.     Fitzpiers,  being  in  front  of  Melbury, 

299 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

was  seen  by  the  latter,  but  the  surgeon,  never  turning 
his  head,  did  not  observe  his  father-in-law  ambling  up 
slowly  and  silently  under  the  trees,  though  his  horse, 
too,  was  a  grey  one. 

*  How  is  Grace?*  said  his  wife,  as  soon  as  he 
entered. 

Melbury  looked  gloomy,  *  She  is  not  at  all  well,* 
he  said.  *  I  don't  like  the  looks  of  her  at  all.  I 
couldn't  bear  the  notion  of  her  staying  away  in  a 
strange  place  any  longer,  and  I  begged  her  to  let  me 
get  her  home.  At  last  she  agreed  to  it,  but  not  till 
after  much  persuading.  I  was  then  sorry  that  I  rode 
over  instead  of  driving ;  but  I  have  hired  a  nice  com- 
fortable carriage — the  easiest-going  I  could  get — and 
she'll  be  here  in  a  couple  of  hours  or  less.  I  rode  on 
ahead  to  tell  you  to  get  her  room  ready;  but  I  see 
her  husband  has  come  back.' 

!  *Yes,'  said  Mrs.  Melbury.  She  expressed  her 
concern  that  her  husband  had  hired  a  carriage  all  the 
way  from  Shottsford.     *  What  it  will  cost ! '  she  said. 

*  I  don't  care  what  it  costs ! '  he  exclaimed  testily. 
*  I  was  determined  to  get  her  home.  Why  she  went 
away,  I  can't  think !  She  acts  in  a  way  that  is  not  at 
all  likely  to  mend  matters  as  far  as  I  can  see.' 

Grace  had  not  told  her  father  of  her  interview  with 
Mrs.  Charmond  and  the  disclosure  that  had  been 
whispered  in  her  startled  ear. 

*  Since  Edred  is  come,'  he  continued,  '  he  might 
have  waited  in  till  I  got  back,  to  ask  me  how  she  was, 
if  it  was  only  for  a  compliment.  I  saw  him  go  out  ; 
where  is  he  gone  ? ' 

Mrs.  Melbury  reminded  her  husband  that  there 
was  not  much  doubt  about  the  place  of  his  first  visit 
after  an  absence.  She  had,  in  fact,  seen  Fitzpiers 
take  the  direction  of  the  manor-house. 

Melbury  said  no  more.  It  was  exasperating  to 
him  that  just  at  this  moment,  when  there  was  every 
reason  for  Fitzpiers  to  stay  indoors,  or,  at  any  rate, 
to  ride  along  the  Shottsford  road  to  meet  his  ailing 

300 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

wife,  he  should  be  doing  despite  to  her  by  going 
elsewhere.  The  old  man  went  out  of  doors  again  ; 
and,  his  horse  being  hardly  unsaddled  as  yet,  he  told 
Upjohn  to  re-tighten  the  girths  ;  again  mounting  he 
rode  off  at  the  heels  of  the  surgeon. 

By  the  time  that  Melbury  reached  the  park  he 
was  prepared  to  go  any  lengths  in  combating  this 
rank  and  reckless  errantry  of  his  daughter's  husband. 
He  would  fetch  home  Edred  Fitzpiers  to-night  by 
some  means,  rough  or  fair ;  in  his  view  there  could 
come  of  his  interference  nothing  worse  than  what 
existed  at  present.  And  yet  to  every  bad  there  is  a 
worse. 

He  had  entered  by  the  bridle-gate  which  admitted 
to  the  park  on  this  side,  and  cantered  over  the  soft 
turf  almost  in  the  tracks  of  Fitzpiers's  horse,  till  he 
reached  the  clump  of  trees  under  which  his  precursor 
had  halted.  The  whitish  object  that  was  indistinctly 
visible  here  in  the  gloom  of  the  boughs  he  found  to 
be  Darling,  as  left  by  Fitzpiers. 

*  Damn  him !  why  did  he  not  ride  up  to  the  house 
in  an  honest  way  ? '  said  Melbury. 

He  profited  by  Fitzpiers's  example ;  dismounting, 
he  tied  his  horse  under  an  adjoining  tree,  and  went 
on  to  the  house  on  foot,  as  the  other  had  done.  He 
was  no  longer  disposed  to  stick  at  trifles  in  his  in- 
vestigation, and  did  not  hesitate  to  gently  open  the 
front  door  without  ringing. 

The  large  square  hall,  with  its  oak  floor,  staircase, 
and  wainscot,  was  lighted  by  a  dim  lamp  hanging 
from  a  beam.  Not  a  soul  was  visible.  He  went  into 
the  corridor  and  listened  at  a  door  which  he  knew  to 
be  that  of  the  drawing-room ;  there  was  no  sound, 
and  on  turning  the  handle  he  found  the  room  empty. 
A  fire  burning  low  in  the  grate  was  the  sole  light  of 
the  apartment ;  its  beams  flashed  mockingly  on  the 
somewhat  showy  Versaillese  furniture  and  gilding 
here,  in  style  as  unlike  that  of  the  structural  parts  of 
the  building  as  it  was  possible  to  be,  and  probably 

301 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

introduced  by  Felice  to  counteract  the  fine  old 
English  gloom  of  the  place.  Disappointed  In  his 
hope  of  confronting  his  son-in-law  at  once,  he  went 
on  to  the  dining-room,  which  was  without  light  or 
fire,  and  pervaded  by  a  cold  atmosphere  signifying 
that  she  had  not  dined  there  that  day. 

By  this  time  Melbury's  mood  had  a  little  mollified. 
Everything  here  was  so  pacific,  so  unaggressive  in  its 
repose,  that  he  was  no  longer  incited  to  provoke  a 
collision  with  Fitzplers  or  with  anybody.  The  com- 
parative stateliness  of  the  apartments  Influenced  him 
to  an  emotion,  rather  than  to  a  belief,  that  where  all 
was  outwardly  so  good  and  proper  there  could  not  be 
quite  that  delinquency  within  which  he  had  suspected. 
It  occurred  to  him,  too,  that  even  if  his  suspicion  were 
justified  his  abrupt,  if  not  unwarrantable,  entry  into 
the  house  might  end  in  confounding  its  Inhabitant  at 
the  expense  of  his  daughter's  dignity  and  his  own. 
Any  ill  result  would  be  pretty  sure  to  hit  Grace 
hardest  in  the  long  run.  He  would,  after  all,  adopt 
the  more  rational  course  and  plead  with  Fitzplers 
privately,  as  he  had  pleaded  with  Mrs.  Charmond. 

He  accordingly  retreated  as  silently  as  he  had 
come.  Passing  the  door  of  the  drawing-room  anew 
he  fancied  that  he  heard  a  noise  within  which  was 
not  the  crackling  of  the  fire.  Melbury  gently  re- 
opened the  door  to  a  distance  of  a  few  inches  and 
saw  at  the  opposite  window  two  figures  in  the  act  of 
stepping  out — a  man  and  a  woman — in  whom  he 
recognized  the  lady  of  the  house  and  his  son-in-law. 
In  a  moment  they  had  disappeared  amid  the  gloom  of 
the  lawn. 

He  drew  back  into  the  hall  and  let  himself  out  by 
the  carriage-entrance  door,  coming  round  to  the  lawn- 
front  in  time  to  see  the  two  figures  parting  at  the 
railing  which  divided  the  precincts  of  the  house  from 
the  open  park. 

Mrs.  Charmond  turned  to  hasten  back  immediately 
that  her  lover  had  left  her  side ;  and  Fitzplers  going 

302 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

onward  was  speedily  absorbed  into  the  duskiness  of 
the  trees. 

Melbury  waited  till  Mrs.  Charmond  had  re-entered 
the  drawing-room  window,  and  then  followed  after 
Fitzpiers.  He  would  give  that  precious  young  man 
a  piece  of  his  mind  to-night,  even  if  he  were  not 
tempted  to  give  him  more. 

On  plunging  however  into  the  thick  shade  of  the 
clump  of  oaks  he  could  not  discover  Fitzpiers  ;  neither 
could  he  perceive  his  horse  Blossom  anywhere ;  but 
feeling  his  way  carefully  along  he  by  and  by  discerned 
Fitzpiers's  mare  Darling  still  standing  as  before  under 
the  tree  adjoining  that  to  which  he  had  hitched 
Blossom.  For  a  moment  Melbury  thought  that  his 
own  horse,  being  young  and  strong,  had  broken  away 
from  her  fastening  ;  but  on  listening  intently  he  could 
hear  her  ambling  comfortably  along  a  little  way  ahead, 
and  a  creaking  of  the  saddle  which  showed  that  she 
had  a  rider.  Walking  on  as  far  as  the  small  gate  in 
the  corner  of  the  park  he  met  a  labourer,  who,  in 
reply  to  Melbury 's  inquiry  if  he  had  seen  any  person 
on  a  grey  horse  said  that  he  had  only  met  Dr. 
Fitzpiers. 

It  was  just  what  Melbury  had  begun  to  suspect ; 
Fitzpiers  had  mounted  the  mare  which  did  not  belong 
to  him  in  mistake  for  his  own — an  oversight  easily 
explicable,  in  a  man  ever  unwitting  in  horseflesh,  by 
the  gloom  of  the  spot  and  the  near  similarity  of  the 
animals  in  appearance,  though  Melbury 's  was  readily 
enough  seen  to  be  the  darker  horse  by  day. 

He  hastened  back,  and  did  what  seemed  best  in 
the  circumstances — got  upon  old  Darling,  and  rode 
rapidly  after  Fitzpiers. 

Melbury  had  just  entered  the  wood,  and  was 
winding  along  the  cart-way  which  led  through  it, 
channelled  deep  in  the  leaf-mould  with  large  ruts  that 
were  formed  by  the  timber-waggons  in  fetching  the 
spoil  of  the  plantations,  when  all  at  once  he  descried 
in  front,  at  a  point  where   the  road  took  a  turning 

303 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

round  a  large  chestnut  tree,  the  form  of  his  own 
horse  Blossom.  Melbury  quickened  Darling's  pace, 
thinking  to  come  up  with  Fitzpiers. 

Nearer  view  revealed  that  the  horse  had  no  rider. 
At  Melbury's  approach  it  galloped  friskily  away  under 
the  trees  in  a  homeward  direction.  Thinking  some- 
thing was  wrong  the  timber-merchant  dismounted  as 
soon  as  he  reached  the  chestnut,  and  after  feeling 
about  for  a  minute  or  two  discovered  Fitzpiers  lying 
on  the  ground. 

*  Here — help !  *  cried  the  latter  as  soon  as  he  felt 
Melbury's  touch :  *  I  have  been  thrown  off.  .  .  .  But 
there's  not  much  harm  done,  I  think.' 

Since  Melbury  could  not  now  very  well  read  the 
younger  man  the  lecture  he  had  intended,  and  as 
friendliness  would  be  hypocrisy,  his  instinct  was  to 
speak  not  a  single  word  to  his  son-in-law.  He  raised 
Fitzpiers  into  a  sitting  posture,  and  found  that  he  was 
a  little  stunned  and  stupefied,  but,  as  he  had  said,  not 
otherwise  hurt.  How  this  fall  had  come  about  was 
readily  conjecturable :  Fitzpiers,  imagining  there  was 
only  old  Darling  under  him,  had  been  taken  unawares 
by  the  younger  horse,  anxious  for  the  stable. 

Melbury  was  a  traveller  of  the  old-fashioned  sort : 
having  just  come  from  Shottsford- Forum  he  still  had 
in  his  pocket  the  pilgrim's  flask  of  rum  which  he 
always  carried  on  journeys  exceeding  a  dozen  miles, 
though  he  seldom  drank  much  of  it.  He  poured  it 
down  the  surgeon's  throat  with  such  effect  that  he 
quickly  revived.  Melbury  got  him  on  his  legs ;  but 
the  question  was  what  to  do  with  him.  He  could  not 
walk  more  than  a  few  steps,  and  the  other  horse  had 
gone  away. 

With  great  exertion  Melbury  contrived  to  get  him 
astride  Darling,  mounting  himself  behind  and  holding 
Fitzpiers  round  his  waist  with  one  arm.  Darling 
being  broad,  straight-backed,  and  high  in  the  withers, 
was  well  able  to  carry  double,  at  any  rate  the  short 
distance  to  Hintock  and  at  a  gentle  pace. 

304 


^  XXXV 

IP 

The  mare  paced  along  with  firm  and  cautious  tread 
through  the  copse  where  Winterborne  had  worked, 
and  into  the  heavier  soil  where  the  oaks  grew : 
thence  towards  Marshcombe  Bottom,  intensely  dark 
now  with  overgrowth,  anu  popularly  supposed  to  be 
haunted  by  spirits. 

By  this  time  Fitzpiers  had  quite  recovered  his 
physical  strength.  But  he  had  eaten  nothing  since 
making  a  hasty  breakfast  in  London  that  morning, 
his  anxiety  about  Felice  having  hurried  him  away 
from  home  before  dining ;  as  a  consequence  the  old 
rum  administered  by  his  father-in-law  flew  to  the 
young  man's  head  and  loosened  his  tongue  without 
his  ever  having  recognized  who  it  was  that  had  lent 
him  a  kindly  hand.  He  began  to  speak  in  desultory 
sentences,  Melbury  still  supporting  him. 

*  I've  come  all  the  way  from  London  to-day,*  said 
Fitzpiers.  *  Ah,  that's  the  place  to  meet  your  equals. 
I  live  at  Hintock — worse,  at  Little  Hintock ! — and  I 
am  quite  wasted  there.  There's  not  a  man  within 
ten  miles  of  Hintock  who  can  comprehend  me.  .  .  . 
I  tell  you,  Farmer  What's-your-name,  that  Tm  a  man 
of  education.  I  know  several  languages :  the  poets 
and  I  are  familiar  friends :  I  used  to  read  more  in 
metaphysics  than  anybody  within  fifty  miles ;  and 
since  I  gave  that  up  there's  nobody  can  match  me  in 
the  whole  county  of  South  Wessex  as  a  scientist.  .  .  . 
Yet  I  am  doomed  to  live  with  tradespeople  in  a 
miserable  little  hole  like  Hintock  1  * 

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THE  WOODLANDERS 

•  Indeed  !  *  muttered  Melbury. 

Here  Fitzpiers,  with  alcoholic  energy,  reared 
himself  up  suddenly  from  the  bowed  posture  he  had 
hitherto  held,  thrusting  his  shoulders  so  violently 
against  Melbury's  breast  as  to  make  it  difficult  for 
the  old  man  to  keep  a  hold  on  the  reins. 

'  People  don't  appreciate  me  here ! '  the  surgeon 
exclaimed  ;  then,  lowering  his  voice,  he  added  softly 
and  slowly,  'except  one — except  one  !  ...  A  passion- 
ate soul,  as  warm  as  she  is  clever,  as  beautiful  as  she 
is  warm,  and  as  rich  as  she  is  beautiful.  I  say,  old 
fellow,  those  claws  of  yours  clutch  me  rather  tight — 
rather  like  the  eagle's,  you  know,  that  ate  out  the  liver 
of  Pro — Pre — ,  the  man  on  Mount  Caucasus.  .  .  • 
People  don't  appreciate  me,  I  say,  except  her !  .  .  . 
Ah,  God,  I  am  an  unlucky  man  !  She  would  have 
been  mine,  she  would  have  taken  my  name ;  but 
unfortunately  it  cannot  be  so !  I  stooped  to  mate 
beneath  me ;  and  now  I  rue  it.* 

The  position  was  becoming  a  very  trying  one  for 
Melbury,  corporeally  and  mentally.  He  was  obliged 
to  steady  Fitzpiers  with  his  left  arm,  and  he  began 
to  hate  the  contact.  He  hardly  knew  what  to  do. 
It  was  useless  to  remonstrate  with  Fitzpiers  in  his 
intellectual  confusion  from  the  rum  and  from  the  fall. 
He  remained  silent,  his  hold  upon  his  companion, 
however,  being  stern  rather  than  compassionate. 

'  You  hurt  me  a  little,  farmer ! — though  I  am 
much  obliged  to  you  for  your  kindness.  .  .  .  People 
don't  appreciate  me,  I  say.  Between  ourselves,  I  am 
losing  my  practice  here;  and  why.^*  Because  I  see 
matchless  attraction  where  matchless  attraction  is, 
both  in  person  and  position. — I  mention  no  names,  so 
nobody  will  be  the  wiser.  .  .  .  But  I  have  lost  her, — 
in  a  legitimate  sense,  that  is.  If  I  were  a  free  man 
now,  things  have  come  to  such  a  pass  between  us  that 
she  could  not  refuse  me ;  while  with  her  fortune 
(which  I  don't  covet  for  itself)  I  should  have  a  chance 
of  satisfying    an    honourable   ambition — a   chance    I 

306 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

have  not  had  yet!  •  .  .  and  now  never,  never  shall 
have  probably ! ' 

Melbury,  his  heart  throbbing  against  the  other's 
backbone,  and  his  brain  on  fire  with  indignation, 
ventured  to  mutter  huskily,  *  Why  ?  ' 

The  horse  ambled  on  some  steps  before  Fitzpiers 
replied.  *  Because  I  am  tied  and  bound  to  another 
by  law,  as  tightly  as  I  am  to  you  by  your  arm — 
not  that  I  complain  of  your  arm — I  thank  you  for 
helping  me.  Well,  where  are  we  ?  Not  nearly 
home  yet?  .  .  .  Home,  say  I.  It  is  a  home! 
When  I  might  have  been  at  the  other  house  over 
there.'  In  a  stupefied  way  he  flung  his  hand  in  the 
direction  of  the  park.  *  I  was  just  two  months  too 
early  in  committing  myself.  Had  I  only  seen  the 
other  first * 

Here  the  old  man's  arm  gave  Fitzpiers  a  con- 
vulsive shake. 

*  What  are  you  doing  ? '  continued  the  latter. 
*  Keep  still,  please,  or  put  me  down.  ...  I  was 
saying  that  I  lost  her  by  a  mere  little  two  months ! 
There  is  no  chance  for  me  now  in  this  world,  and 
it  makes  me  reckless  —  reckless  !  Unless,  indeed, 
anything  should  happen  to  the  other  one.  She  is 
amiable  enough ;  but  if  anything  should  happen  to 
her — and  I  hear  she  is  ill  at  this  moment — well,  if  it 
should,  I  should  be  free — and  my  fame,  my  happiness, 
would  be  insured  ! ' 

These  were  the  last  words  that  Fitzpiers  uttered 
in  his  seat  in  front  of  the  timber-merchant.  Unable 
longer  to  master  himself  Melbury  whipped  away  his 
spare  arm  from  Fitzpiers's  waist,  and  seized  him  by 
the  collar. 

*  You  heartless  villain — after  all  that  we  have  done 
for  'ee ! '  he  cried  with  a  quivering  lip.  *  And  the 
money  of  hers  that  you've  had,  and  the  roof  we've 
provided  to  shelter  'ee  I — It  is  to  me,  George  Mel- 
bury, that  you  dare  to  talk  like  that ! '  The  exclama- 
tion was  accompanied  by  a  powerful  swing  from  the 

307 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

shoulder,  which  flung  the  young  man  headlong  into 
the  road. 

Fitzpiers  fell  with  a  heavy  thud  upon  the  stumps 
of  some  brushwood  which  had  been  cut  during  the 
winter  preceding.  Darling  continued  her  walk  for 
a  few  paces  further  and  stopped. 

*  God  forgive  me  ! '  Melbury  murmured,  repenting 
of  what  he  had  done.  *  He  tried  me  too  sorely,  and 
now  perhaps  I've  murdered  him  ! ' 

He  turned  round  in  the  saddle  and  looked  towards 
the  spot  on  which  Fitzpiers  had  fallen.  To  his  great 
surprise  he  beheld  the  surgeon  rise  to  his  feet  as  if 
scarcely  hurt,  and  walk  away  rapidly  under  the  trees. 

Melbury  listened  till  the  rustle  of  Fitzpiers's  foot- 
steps died  away.  *  It  might  have  been  a  crime,  but 
for  the  mercy  of  Providence  in  providing  leaves  for 
his  fall,'  he  said  to  himself.  And  then  his  mind 
reverted  to  the  words  of  Fitzpiers,  and  his  indigna- 
tion so  mounted  within  him  that  he  almost  wished 
the  fall  had  put  an  end  to  the  surgeon  there  and 
then. 

He  had  not  ridden  far  when  he  discerned  his  own 
grey  mare  standing  under  some  bushes.  Leaving 
Darling  for  a  moment,  Melbury  went  forward  and 
easily  caught  the  younger  animal,  now  disheartened 
at  its  freak.  He  made  the  pair  of  them  fast  to  a 
tree,  and  turning  back  endeavoured  to  find  some 
trace  of  Fitzpiers,  feeling  pitifully  that,  after  all,  he 
had  gone  further  than  he  intended  with  the  offender. 
But  though  he  threaded  the  wood  hither  and  thither, 
his  toes  ploughing  layer  after  layer  of  the  little  horny 
scrolls  that  had  once  been  leaves,  he  could  not  find 
him.  He  stood  still,  listening  and  looking  round. 
The  breeze  was  oozing  through  the  network  of 
boughs  as  through  a  strainer  ;  the  trunks  and  larger 
branches  stood  against  the  light  of  the  sky  in  the 
forms  of  sentinels,  gigantic  candelabra,  pikes,  halberds, 
lances,  and  whatever  else  the  fancy  chose  to  make 
of  them.     Giving  up  the  search  Melbury  came  back 

308 


i 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

to  the  horses,  and  walked  slowly  homeward  leading 
one  in  each  hand. 

It  happened  that  on  the  selfsame  evening  a  boy- 
had  been  returning  through  Hintock  Park  to  Little 
Hintock  about  the  time  of  Fitzpiers's  passage  home 
along  that  route.  A  horse-collar  that  had  been  left 
at  the  harness-mender's  to  be  repaired  was  required 
for  use  at  five  o'clock  next  morning,  and  in  con- 
sequence the  boy  had  to  fetch  it  overnight.  He  put 
his  head  through  the  collar,  and  the  way  of  the  park 
being  a  short  cut  he  took  it,  whistling  the  one  tune 
he  knew  as  an  antidote  to  fear. 

The  boy  suddenly  became  aware  of  a  horse  brush- 
ing rather  friskily  along  the  track  behind  him.  Not 
knowing  whether  to  expect  friend  or  foe,  prudence 
suggested  that  he  should  cease  his  whistling  and 
retreat  among  the  trees  till  the  horse  and  his  rider 
had  gone  by,  a  course  to  which  he  was  still  more  in- 
clined when  he  found  how  noiselessly  they  approached, 
and  saw  that  the  horse  looked  pale,  and  remembered 
what  he  had  read  about  Death  in  the  Revelation. 
He  therefore  deposited  the  collar  by  a  tree  and  hid 
himself  behind  it.  The  horseman  came  on,  and  the 
youth,  whose  eyes  were  as  keen  as  telescopes,  to  his 
great  relief  recognized  the  doctor. 

As  Melbury  surmised,  Fitzpiers  had  in  the  dark- 
ness taken  Blossom  for  Darling,  and  he  had  not 
discovered  his  mistake  when  he  came  up  opposite 
the  boy,  though  he  was  somewhat  surprised  at  the 
liveliness  of  his  usually  placid  mare.  The  only  other 
pair  of  eyes  on  the  spot  whose  vision  was  keen  as 
the  young  carter's  were  those  of  the  horse ;  and, 
with  that  strongly  conservative  objection  to  the 
unusual  which  animals  show.  Blossom,  on  eyeing 
the  collar  under  the  tree — quite  invisible  to  Fitzpiers 
— exercised  none  of  the  patience  of  the  older  horse, 
but  shied  sufficiently  to  unseat  so  second-rate  an 
equestrian  as  the  surgeon. 

309 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

He  fell  and  did  not  move,  lying  as  Melbury  after- 
wards found  him.  The  boy  ran  away,  salving  his  con- 
science for  the  desertion  by  thinking  how  vigorously 
he  would  spread  the  alarm  of  the  accident  when  he 
got  to  Hintock — which  he  uncompromisingly  did, 
incrusting  the  skeleton  event  with  a  load  of  dramatic 
horrors. 

Grace  had  returned,  and  the  fly  hired  on  her 
account,  though  not  by  her  husband,  at  the  Crown 
Hotel,  Shottsford- Forum,  had  been  paid  for  and  dis- 
missed. The  long  drive  had  somewhat  revived  her, 
her  illness  being  a  feverish  intermittent  nervousness 
which  had  more  to  do  with  mind  than  body,  and  she 
walked  about  her  sitting-room  in  something  of  a 
hopeful  mood.  Mrs.  Melbury  had  told  her  as  soon 
as  she  arrived  that  her  husband  had  returned  from 
London.  He  had  gone  out,  she  said,  to  see  a  patient 
as  she  supposed,  and  he  must  soon  be  back,  since  he 
had  had  no  dinner  or  tea.  Grace  would  not  allow 
her  mind  to  harbour  any  suspicion  of  his  where- 
abouts, and  her  stepmother  said  nothing  of  Mrs. 
Charmond's  rumoured  sorrows  and  plans  of  departure. 

So  the  young  wife  sat  by  the  fire,  waiting  silently. 
She  had  left  Hintock  in  a  turmoil  of  aversion  from  her 
husband,  after  the  revelation  of  Mrs.  Charmond,  and 
had  intended  not  to  be  at  home  when  he  returned. 
But  she  had  thought  the  matter  over,  and  had  allowed 
her  father's  influence  to  prevail  and  bring  her  back  ; 
and  now  somewhat  regretted  that  Edred's  arrival  had 
preceded  hers. 

By  and  by  Mrs.  Melbury  came  upstairs  with  a 
slight  air  of  flurry  and  abruptness. 

'  I  have  something  to  tell — some  bad  news,'  she 
said.  *  But  you  must  not  be  alarmed,  as  it  is  not  so 
bad  as  it  might  have  been.  Edred  has  been  thrown 
off  his  horse.  We  don't  think  he  is  hurt  much.  It 
happened  in  the  wood  the  other  side  of  Marshcombe 
Bottom.' 

She  went  on  to  give  a  few  of  the  particulars,  but 

310 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

none  of  the  invented  horrors  that  had  been  communi- 
cated by  the  boy.  *  I  thought  it  better  to  tell  you  at 
once,'  she  added,  'in  case  he  should  not — be  very 
well  able  to  walk  home,  and  somebody  should  bring 
him/ 

Mrs.  Melbury  really  thought  matters  much  worse 
than  she  represented,  and  Grace  knew  that  she  thought 
so.  She  sat  down  dazed  for  a  few  minutes,  returning 
a  negative  to  her  stepmother's  inquiry  if  she  could  do 
anything  for  her. 

*Ah — yes — please  go  into  the  bedroom,'  Grace 
said  on  second  thoughts,  *  and  see  if  all  is  ready  there 
— in  case  it  is  serious.*  Mrs.  Melbury  thereupon 
called  Grammer,  and  they  did  as  directed,  supplying 
the  room  with  everything  they  could  think  of  for  the 
accommodation  of  an  injured  man. 

Nobody  was  left  in  the  lower  part  of  the  house. 
Not  many  minutes  had  passed  when  Grace  heard  a 
knock  at  the  door — a  single  knock,  not  loud  enough 
to  reach  the  ears  of  those  in  the  bedroom. 

She  went  to  the  top  of  the  stairs  and  said  faintly, 
*  Come  up,'  knowing  that  the  door  stood,  as  usual  in 
such  houses,  wide  open.  Retreating  into  the  gloom 
of  the  broad  landing  she  saw  rise  up  the  stairs  a 
woman  whom  at  first  she  did  not  recognize,  till  her 
voice  revealed  her  to  be  Suke  Damson  in  great  fright 
and  sorrow.  A  streak  of  light  from  the  partially 
closed  door  of  Grace's  room  fell  upon  her  face  as  she 
came  forward,  and  it  was  drawn  and  pale. 

*  O,  Miss  Melbury — I  would  say  Mrs.  Fitzpiers,' 
she  said,  wringing  her  hands.  *  This  terrible  news — 
is  he  dead.f^  Is  he  hurted  very  bad  .-^  Tell  me;  I 
couldn't  help  coming — please  forgive  me,  Miss  Mel- 
bury— Mrs.  Fitzpiers,  I  would  say!' 

Grace  sank  down  on  the  oak  chest  which  stood  on 
the  landing,  and  put  her  hands  to  her  now  flushed 
face  and  head.  Ought  she  not  to  order  Suke  Damson 
downstairs  and  out  of  the  house?  Her  husband 
might  be  brought  in  at  any  moment,  and  what  would 

311 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

happen  ?  But  could  she  order  this  genuinely  grieved 
woman  away  ? 

There  was  a  dead  silence  of  half  a  minute  or  so, 
till  Suke  said,  *Why  don't  ye  speak?  Is  he  here? 
Is  he  dead?  If  so,  why  can't  I  see  him — would  it  be 
so  very  wrong  ?  ' 

Before  Grace  had  answered  somebody  else  came 
to  the  door  below — a  footfall  light  as  a  roe's.  There 
was  a  hurried  tapping  upon  the  panel,  as  if  with  the 
impatient  tips  of  fingers  whose  owner  thought  not 
whether  a  knocker  were  there  or  no.  Without  a 
pause,  and  possibly  guided  by  the  stray  beam  of  light 
on  the  landing,  the  new-comer  ascended  the  staircase 
as  the  first  had  done.  Grace  started ;  it  was  a  lady. 
Grace  was  sufficiently  visible,  and  the  lady  came  to 
her  side. 

*  I  could  make  nobody  hear  downstairs,*  said  Felice 
Charmond  with  lips  whose  dryness  could  almost  be 
heard,  and  panting  as  she  stood  ready  to  sink  on  the 
floor  with  distress.  '  What  is — the  matter — tell  me 
the  worst !     Can  he  live  ? ' 

She  looked  at  Grace  imploringly,  without  perceiv- 
ing poor  Suke  who,  dismayed  at  such  a  presence,  had 
shrunk  away  into  the  shade.  Mrs.  Charmond's  little 
feet  were  covered  with  mud:  she  was  quite  unconscious 
of  her  appearance  now. 

*  I  have  heard  such  a  dreadful  report,'  she  went 
on :  *  I  came  to  ascertain  the  truth  of  it.  Is  he — 
killed?' 

*  She  won't  tell  us — he's  dying — he's  in  that  room  !  * 
burst  out  Suke,  regardless  of  consequences,  as  she 
heard  the  distant  movements  of  Mrs.  Melbury  and 
Grammer  in  the  bedroom  at  the  end  of  the  passage. 

'  Where  ? '  said  Mrs.  Charmond ;  and  on  Suke 
pointing  out  the  direction  she  made  as  if  to  go 
thither. 

Grace  barred  the  way. 

*  He  is  not  there,'  she  said.  *  I  have  not  seen  him 
any  more  than  you.     I  have  heard  a  report  only — not 

312 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

so  bad  as  you  think.     It  must  have  been  exaggerated 
to  you/ 

*  Please  do  not  conceal  anything — let  me  know  all ! ' 
said  Felice  doubtingly. 

*  You  shall  know  all  I  know.  Indeed,  you  have 
a  perfect  right  to  go  into  his  bedroom ;  who  can  have 
a  better  than  either  of  you  ? '  said  Grace  with  a  delicate 
sting  which  was  lost  upon  them  now  as,  ceasing  to 
obstruct  the  way,  she  led  on  to  the  chamber  door, 
and  flung  it  open.  *  Wives  all,  let's  enter  together ! 
.  .  .  I  repeat,  I  have  only  heard  a  less  alarming 
account  than  you  have  heard ;  how  much  it  means, 
and  how  little,  I  cannot  say.  I  pray  God  that  it 
means  not  much — in  common  humanity.  You  prob- 
ably pray  the  s2Lme—/or  other  reasons  J 

Then  she  regarded  them  there  in  the  dim  light 
awhile,  as,  gathering  with  her  round  the  empty  bed  of 
Fitzpiers,  they  stood  dumb  in  their  trouble,  staring  at 
it,  and  at  his  night-shirt  lying  on  the  pillow  ;  not  sting- 
ing back  at  her,  not  heeding  her  mood.  A  tenderness 
spread  over  Grace  like  a  dew.  It  was  well  enough, 
conventionally,  to  address  either  one  of  them  in  the 
wife's  regulation  terms  of  virtuous  sarcasm,  as  woman, 
creature,  or  thing.  But  life,  what  was  it,  after  all  '^ 
She  had,  like  the  singer  of  the  Psalm  of  Asaph,  been 
plagued  and  chastened  all  the  day  long  ;  but  could  she, 
by  retributive  words,  in  order  to  please  herself,  the 
individual,  'offend  against  the  generation,'  as  that 
singer  would  not  ? 

'  He  is  dying,  perhaps ! '  blubbered  Suke  Damson, 
putting  her  apron  to  her  eyes. 

In  their  gestures  and  faces  there  were  anxieties, 
affection,  agony  of  heart  —  all  for  a  man  who  had 
wronged  them — had  never  really  behaved  towards 
either  of  them  anyhow  but  selfishly.  Neither  one  but 
would  have  well-nigh  sacrificed  half  her  life  to  him, 
even  now.  The  tears  which  his  possibly  critical 
situation  could  not  bring  to  her  eyes  surged  over 
at  the  contemplation  of  these    fellow-women  whose 

313 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

relations  with  him  were  as  close  as  her  own  without 
its  conventionality.  She  went  out  to  the  balustrade, 
bent  herself  upon  it,  and  wept. 

Thereupon  Felice  following  began  to  cry  also, 
without  using  her  handkerchief,  letting  the  tears  run 
down  silently.  While  the  three  stood  together  thus, 
pitying  another  though  most  to  be  pitied  themselves, 
the  pacing  of  a  horse  or  horses  became  audible  in  the 
court,  and  in  a  moment  Melbury's  voice  was  heard 
calling  to  his  stableman. 

Grace  at  once  started  up,  ran  down  the  stairs,  and 
out  into  the  quadrangle  as  her  father  crossed  it  towards 
the  door.  *  Father,  what  is  the  matter  with  him  ? ' 
she  cried. 

*  Who,  Edred  ?  *  said  Melbury  abruptly.  *  Matter  ? 
Nothing.  What,  my  dear,  and  have  you  got  home 
safe  ?  Why,  you  are  better  already !  But  you  ought 
not  to  be  out  in  the  air  like  this.* 

*  But  he  has  been  thrown  off  his  horse  ! ' 

*  I  know  ;  I  know.  I  saw  it.  He  got  up  again, 
and  walked  off  as  well  as  ever.  A  fall  on  the  leaves 
didn't  hurt  a  spry  fellow  like  him.  He  did  not  come 
this  way,'  he  added  significantly.  *  I  suppose  he  went 
to  look  for  his  horse.  I  tried  to  find  him,  but  could 
not.  But  after  seeing  him  go  away  under  the  trees  I 
found  the  horse,  and  have  led  it  home  for  safety.  So 
he  must  walk.  Now,  don't  you  stay  out  here  in  this 
night  air.' 

She  returned  to  the  house  with  her  father.  When 
she  had  again  ascended  to  the  landing  and  to  her  own 
rooms  beyond,  it  was  a  great  relief  to  her  to  find  that 
both  Petticoat  the  First  and  Petticoat  the  Second  of 
her  Bien-aimd  had  silently  disappeared.  They  had  in 
all  probability  heard  the  words  of  her  father,  and 
departed  with  their  anxieties  relieved. 

Presently  her  parents  came  up  to  Grace,  and 
busied  themselves  to  see  that  she  was  comfortable. 
Perceiving  soon  that  she  would  prefer  to  be  left  alone 
they  went  away. 

314 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

Grace  waited  on.  The  clock  raised  its  voice  now 
and  then,  but  her  husband  did  not  return.  At  her 
father's  usual  hour  for  retiring  he  again  came  in 
to  see  her.  '  Do  not  stay  up,'  she  said  as  soon  as 
he  entered.  *  I  am  not  at  all  tired.  I  will  sit  up 
for  him.' 

*  I  think  it  will  be  useless,  Grace,'  said  Melbury 
slowly. 

'Why?' 

*  I  have  had  a  bitter  quarrel  with  him.  And  on 
that  account  I  hardly  think  he  will  return  to-night.' 

'  A  quarrel  ?  Was  that  after  the  fall  seen  by  the 
boy?' 

Melbury  nodded  an  affirmative — without  taking 
his  eyes  off  the  candle. 

*  Yes ;  it  was  as  we  were  coming  home  together,' 
he  said. 

Something  had  been  swelling  up  in  Grace  while 
her  father  was  speaking.  *  How  could  you  want  to 
quarrel  with  him  ?  '  she  cried  suddenly.  *  Why  could 
you  not  let  him  come  home  quietly,  if  he  were  inclined 
to?  He  Is  my  husband;  and  now  you  have  married 
me  to  him  surely  you  need  not  provoke  him  un- 
necessarily? First  you  induce  me  to  accept  him,  and 
then  you  do  things  that  divide  us  more  than  we  should 
naturally  be  divided  ! ' 

*  How  can  you  speak  so  unjustly  to  me,  Grace  ?  * 
said  Melbury,  with  Indignant  sorrow,  '/divide  you 
from  your  husband,  indeed  !     You  little  think ' 

He  was  inclined  to  say  more — to  tell  her  the 
whole  story  of  the  encounter,  and  that  the  provocation 
he  had  received  had  lain  entirely  in  hearing  her 
despised.  But  it  would  have  greatly  distressed  her, 
and  he  forbore. 

*  You  had  better  lie  down.  You  are  tired,'  he  said 
soothingly.     *  Good-night.' 

The  household  went  to  bed,  and  a  silence  fell 
upon  the  dwelling,  broken  only  by  the  occasional 
skirr  of  a  halter  in  Melbury 's  stables.     Despite  her 

315 


/» 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

father's  advice  Grace  still  waited  up.  But  nobody 
came. 

It  was  a  critical  time  in  Grace's  emotional  life,  that 
night.  She  thought  of  her  husband  a  good  deal,  and 
for  the  nonce  forgot  Winterborne. 

*  How  these  unhappy  women  must  have  admired 
Edred ! '  she  said  to  herself  *  How  attractive  he 
must  be  to  everybody ;  and  indeed,  he  is  attractive.* 
The  possibility  is  that,  piqued  by  rivalry,  these  ideas 
might  have  been  transmuted  into  their  corresponding 
emotions  by  a  show  of  the  least  reciprocity  in  Fitz- 
piers.  There  was,  in  truth,  a  lovebird  yearning  to 
fly  from  her  heart ;  and  it  wanted  a  lodging  badly. 

But  no  husband  came.  The  fact  was  that  Melbury 
had  been  much  mistaken  about  the  condition  of  Fitz- 
piers.  People  do  not  fall  headlong  on  stumps  of 
underwood  with  impunity.  Had  the  old  man  been 
able  to  watch  Fitzpiers  narrowly  enough,  he  would 
have  observed  that,  on  rising  and  walking  into  the 
thicket,  he  dropped  blood  as  he  went ;  that  he  had 
not  proceeded  fifty  yards  before  he  showed  signs  of 
being  dizzy,  and,  raising  his  hands  to  his  head,  reeled 
and  fell. 


XXXVI 

Grace  was  not  the  only  one  who  watched  and 
meditated  in  Hintock  that  night.  Felice  Charmond 
was  in  no  mood  to  retire  to  rest  at  a  customary  hour ; 
and  over  her  drawing-room  fire  at  the  manor-house 
she  sat  as  motionless  and  in  as  deep  a  reverie  as 
Grace  in  her  little  chamber  at  the  homestead. 

Having  caught  ear  of  Melbury's  intelligence  while 
she  had  stood  on  the  landing  at  his  house,  and  been 
eased  of  much  of  her  mental  distress,  her  sense  of 
personal  decorum  had  returned  upon  her  with  a  rush. 
She  descended  the  stairs  and  left  the  door  like  a 
ghost,  keeping  close  to  the  walls  of  the  building  till 
she  got  round  to  the  gate  of  the  quadrangle,  through 
which  she  noiselessly  passed  almost  before  Grace  and 
her  father  had  finished  their  discourse.  Suke  Damson 
had  thought  it  well  to  imitate  her  superior  in  this 
respect,  and,  descending  the  back  stairs  as  Felice 
descended  the  front,  went  out  at  the  side  door  and 
home  to  her  cottage. 

Once  outside  Melbury's  gates  Mrs.  Charmond  ran 
with  all  her  speed  to  the  manor-house  without  stop- 
ping or  turning  her  head.  She  entered  her  own 
dwelling  as  she  had  emerged  from  it — by  the  drawing- 
room  window.  Everything  was  just  as  she  had  left 
it :  she  had  been  gone  about  three-quarters  of  an  hour 
by  the  clock,  and  nobody  seemed  to  have  discovered 
her  absence.  Tired  in  body  but  tense  in  mind  she 
sat  down,  palpitating,  round-eyed,  bewildered  at  what 
she  had  done. 

317 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

She  had  been  betrayed  by  affrighted  love  into  a 
visit  which,  now  that  the  emotion  instigating  it  had 
calmed  down  under  her  belief  that  Fitzpiers  was  in 
no  danger,  was  the  saddest  surprise  to  her.  This  was 
how  she  had  set  about  doing  her  best  to  escape  her 
passionate  bondage  to  him !  Somehow,  in  declar- 
ing to  Grace  and  to  herself  the  unseemliness  of 
her  infatuation,  she  had  grown  a  convert  to  its 
irresistibility. 

If  Heaven  would  only  give  her  strength ;  but 
Heaven  never  did !  One  thing  was  indispensable  : 
she  must  go  away  from  Hintock  if  she  meant  to  with- 
stand further  temptation.  The  struggle  was  too 
wearying,  too  hopeless,  while  she  remained.  It  was 
but  a  continual  capitulation  of  conscience  to  what  she 
dared  not  name. 

By  degrees,  as  she  sat  on  and  on,  Felice's  mind — 
helped  perhaps  by  the  anti-climax  of  supposing  that 
her  lover  was  unharmed  after  all  her  fright  about  him 
— grew  wondrously  strong  in  wise  resolve.  For  the 
moment  she  was  in  a  mood,  in  the  words  of  Mrs. 
Elizabeth  Montagu,  *  to  run  mad  with  discretion  ' ;  and 
was  so  persuaded  that  discretion  lay  in  departure  that 
she  wished  to  set  about  going  that  very  minute. 
Jumping  up  from  her  seat  she  began  to  gather 
together  some  small  personal  knick-knacks  scattered 
about  the  room,  to  feel  that  preparations  were  really 
in  train. 

While  moving  here  and  there  she  fancied  that  she 
heard  a  slight  noise  out  of  doors,  and  stood  still. 
Surely  it  was  a  tapping  at  the  window.  A  thought 
entered  her  mind,  and  burnt  her  cheek.  He  had  come 
to  that  window  before ;  yet  was  it  possible  that  he 
should  dare  to  do  so  now  !  All  the  servants  were  in 
bed,  and  in  the  ordinary  course  of  affairs  she  would 
have  retired  also.  Then  she  remembered  that  on 
stepping  in  by  the  casement  and  closing  it  she  had 
not  fastened  the  window-shutter,  so  that  a  streak  of 
light  from  the  interior   of  the  room  might  have  re- 

318 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

vealed  her  vigil  to  an  observer  on  the  lawn.  How 
all  things  conspired  against  her  keeping  faith  with 
Grace ! 

The  tapping  recommenced,  light  as  from  the  bill 
of  a  little  bird  :  her  illegitimate  hope  overcame  her 
discretion :  she  went  and  pulled  back  the  shutter, 
determining  however  to  shake  her  head  at  him,  and 
keep  the  casement  securely  closed. 

What  she  saw  outside  might  have  struck  terror 
into  a  heart  stouter  than  a  helpless  woman's  at  mid- 
night. In  the  centre  of  the  lowest  pane  of  the 
window,  close  to  the  glass,  was  a  human  face  which 
she  barely  recognized  as  the  face  of  Fitzpiers.  It  was 
surrounded  with  the  darkness  of  the  night  without, 
corpse-like  in  its  pallor,  and  covered  with  blood.  As 
disclosed  in  the  square  area  of  the  pane  it  met  her 
frightened  eyes  like  a  replica  of  the  Sudarium  of  St. 
Veronica. 

He  moved  his  lips  and  looked  at  her  imploringly. 
Her  rapid  mind  pieced  together  in  an  instant  a 
possible  concatenation  of  events  which  might  have  led 
to  this  tragical  issue.  She  unlatched  the  casement 
with  a  terrified  hand,  and  bending  down  to  where  he 
was  crouching  pressed  her  face  to  his  with  passionate 
solicitude.  She  assisted  him  into  the  room  without  a 
word,  to  do  which  it  was  almost  necessary  to  lift  him 
bodily. 

Quickly  closing  the  window  and  fastening  the 
shutters  she  bent  over  him  breathlessly. 

*  Are  you  hurt  much,  much  ? '  she  cried  faintly. 
*  O,  O,  how  is  this  ! ' 

*  Rather  much  —  but  don't  be  frightened,'  he 
answered  in  a  difficult  whisper,  and  turning  himself 
to  obtain  an  easier  position  if  possible.  *  A  little 
water,  please.' 

She  ran  across  into  the  dining-room,  and  brought 
a  bottle  and  glass,  from  which  he  eagerly  drank.  He 
could  then  speak  much  better,  and  with  her  help  got 
upon  the  nearest  couch. 

319 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

*  Are  you  dying,  Edred  ?  '  she  said.  *  Do  speak  to 
me!' 

*  I  am  half  dead,'  gasped  Fitzpiers.  *  But  perhaps 
I  shall  get  over  it.  .  .  .   It  is  chiefly  loss  of  blood.' 

'  But  I  thought  your  fall  did  not  hurt  you  ?  '  said 
she.     *  Who  did  this  ?  ' 

*  Felice — my  father-in-law !  .  .  .  I  have  crawled 
to  you  more  than  a  mile  on  my  hands  and  knees — 
God,  I  thought  I  should  never  have  got  here !  .  .  .  I 
have  come  to  you — because  you  are  the  only  friend — 
I  have  in  the  world  now.  ...  I  can  never  go  back  to 
Hintock — never — to  the  roof  of  the  Melburys  !  Not 
poppy  nor  mandragora  will  ever  medicine  this  bitter 
feud.  ...  If  I  were  only  well  again ' 

*  Let  me  bind  your  head,  now  that  you  have 
rested.' 

*  Yes — but  wait  a  moment — it  stopped  bleeding, 
fortunately,  or  I  should  be  a  dead  man  before  now  ! 
While  in  the  wood  I  managed  to  make  a  tourniquet 
of  some  halfpence  and  my  handkerchief,  as  well  as  I 
could  in  the  dark.  .  .  .  But  listen,  dear  Felice !  Can 
you  hide  me  till  I  am  well  ?  Whatever  comes,  I  can 
be  seen  in  Hintock  no  more.  My  practice  is  nearly 
gone,  you  know — and  after  this  I  would  not  care  to 
recover  it  if  I  could.* 

By  this  time  Felice's  tears  began  to  blind  her. 
Where  were  now  her  discreet  plans  for  sundering 
their  lives  for  ever  ?  To  administer  to  him  in  his  pain, 
and  trouble,  and  poverty,  was  her  single  thought.  The 
first  step  was  to  hide  him,  and  she  asked  herself 
where.     A  place  occurred  to  her  mind. 

She  got  him  some  wine  from  the  dining-room, 
which  strengthened  him  much.  Then  she  managed 
to  remove  his  boots,  and,  as  he  could  now  keep  him- 
self upright  by  leaning  upon  her  on  one  side  and  a 
walking-stick  on  the  other,  they  went  thus  in  slow 
march  out  of  the  room  and  up  the  stairs.  At  the  top 
she  took  him  along  a  gallery,  pausing  whenever  he 
required  rest,  and  thence  up  a  smaller  staircase  to  the 

320 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

least  used  part  of  the  house,  where  she  unlocked  a 
door.  Within  was  a  lumber-room,  containing  aban- 
doned furniture  of  all  descriptions,  built  up  in  piles 
which  obscured  the  light  of  the  windows,  and  formed 
between  them  nooks  and  lairs  in  which  a  person  would 
not  be  discerned  even  should  an  eye  gaze  in  at  the 
door.  The  articles  were  mainly  those  that  had 
belonged  to  the  previous  owner  of  the  house,  and 
had  been  bought  in  by  the  late  Mr.  Charmond  at 
the  auction  ;  but  changing  fashion,  and  the  tastes  of  a 
young  wife,  had  caused  them  to  be  relegated  to  this 
dungeon. 

Here  Fitzpiers  sat  on  the  floor  against  the  wall  till 
she  had  hauled  out  materials  for  a  bed,  which  she 
spread  on  the  floor  in  one  of  the  aforesaid  nooks. 
She  obtained  water  and  a  basin,  and  washed  the  dried 
blood  from  his  face  and  hands ;  and  when  he  was 
comfortably  reclining  fetched  food  from  the  larder. 
While  he  ate  her  eyes  lingered  anxiously  on  his  face, 
following  its  every  movement  with  such  lovingkind- 
ness  as  only  a  fond  woman  can  show. 

He  was  now  in  better  condition,  and  discussed  his 
position  with  her. 

'What  I  fancy  I  said  to  Melbury  must  have  been 
enough  to  enrage  any  man,  if  uttered  in  cold  blood, 
and  with  knowledge  of  his  presence.  But  I  did  not 
know  him,  and  I  was  stupefied  by  what  he  had  given 
me,  so  that  I  hardly  was  aware  of  what  I  said.  Well 
— the  veil  of  that  temple  is  rent  in  twain !  ...  As 
I  am  not  going  to  be  seen  again  in  Hintock,  my  first 
efforts  must  be  directed  to  allay  any  alarm  that  may 
be  felt  at  my  absence,  before  I  am  able  to  get  clear 
away.  Nobody  must  suspect  that  I  have  been  hurt, 
or  there  will  be  a  country  talk  about  me.  Felice,  I 
must  at  once  concoct  a  letter  to  check  all  search  for 
me.  I  think  if  you  can  bring  me  a  pen  and  paper  I 
may  be  able  to  do  it  now.  I  could  rest  better  if  it 
were  done.  Poor  thing !  how  I  tire  her  with  running 
up  and  down  I ' 

321 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

She  fetched  writing  materials  and  held  up  the 
blotting  -  book  as  a  support  to  his  hand,  while  he 
penned  a  brief  note  to  his  nominal  wife. 

*  The  animosity  shown  towards  me  by  your  father,' 
he  wrote  in  this  coldest  of  marital  epistles,  *  is  such 
that  I  cannot  return  again  to  a  roof  which  is  his,  even 
though  it  shelters  you.  A  parting  is  unavoidable,  as 
you  are  sure  to  be  on  his  side  in  this  division.  I  am 
starting  on  a  journey  which  will  take  me  a  long  way 
from  Hintock,  and  you  must  not  expect  to  see  me 
there  again  for  some  time.' 

He  then  gave  Grace  a  few  directions  bearing 
upon  his  professional  engagements  and  other  practical 
matters,  concluding  without  a  hint  of  his  destination, 
or  a  notion  of  when  she  would  see  him  again.  He 
offered  to  read  the  note  to  Felice  before  he  closed  it 
up ;  but  she  would  not  hear  or  see  it :  that  side  of 
his  obligations  distressed  her  beyond  endurance.  She 
turned  away  from  Fitzpiers  and  sobbed  bitterly. 

'  If  you  can  get  this  posted  at  a  place  some  miles 
away,'  he  whispered,  exhausted  by  the  effort  of 
writing,  *  at  Sherton  Abbas,  or  Port-Bredy,  or  still 
better,  Budmouth,  it  will  divert  all  suspicion  from  this 
house  as  the  place  of  my  refuge.' 

*  I  will  drive  to  one  or  other  of  the  places  myself — 
anything  to  keep  it  unknown ! '  she  murmured,  her 
voice  weighted  with  vague  foreboding  now  that  the 
excitement  of  helping  him  had  passed  away. 

Fitzpiers  told  her  that  there  was  yet  one  thing 
more  to  be  done.  *  In  creeping  over  the  fence  on  to 
the  lawn,*  he  said,  *  I  made  the  rail  bloody,  and  it 
shows  rather  too  plainly  on  the  white  paint — I  could 
see  it  in  the  dark.  At  all  hazards  it  should  be  washed 
off.     Could  you  do  that  also,  Felice  ?  ' 

What  will  not  women  do  on  such  devoted  occasions  ? 
Weary  as  she  was  she  went — all  the  way  down  the 
rambling  staircases  to  the  ground  floor,  then  to  search 
for  a  lantern,  which  she  lighted  and  hid  under  her 
cloak ;  then  for  a  wet  sponge,  and  next  forth  into  the 

322 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

night.  The  white  railing  stared  out  in  the  darkness 
at  her  approach,  and  a  ray  from  the  enshrouded 
lantern  fell  upon  the  blood — ^just  where  he  had  told 
her  it  would  be  found.  She  shuddered.  It  was 
almost  too  much  to  bear  in  one  day ;  but  with  a  shak- 
ing hand  she  sponged  the  rail  clean,  and  returned  to 
the  house. 

The  time  occupied  by  these  several  proceedings 
was  not  much  less  than  two  hours.  When  all  was 
done,  and  she  had  smoothed  his  extemporized  bed, 
and  kissed  him,  and  placed  everything  within  his  reach 
that  she  could  think  of,  she  took  her  leave  of  him  and 
locked  him  in. 


XXXVII 

When  her  husband's  letter  reached  Grace's  hands, 
bearing  upon  it  the  postmark  of  a  distant  town,  it 
never  once  crossed  her  mind  that  Fitzpiers  was  lying 
wounded  within  a  mile  or  two  of  her  still.  She  felt 
relieved  that  he  did  not  write  more  bitterly  of  the 
quarrel  with  her  father,  whatever  its  nature  might 
have  been  ;  but  the  general  frigidity  of  his  communi- 
cation quenched  in  her  the  incipient  spark  that  events 
had  kindled  so  shortly  before. 

From  this  centre  of  information  it  was  made 
known  in  Hintock  that  the  doctor  had  gone  away,  and 
as  none  but  the  Melbury  household  was  aware  that  he 
did  not  return  on  the  night  of  his  accident,  no  excite- 
ment manifested  itself  in  the  village. 

Thus  the  early  days  of  May  passed  by.  None  but 
the  nocturnal  birds  and  animals  observed  that  late  one 
evening,  towards  the  middle  of  the  month,  a  closely 
wrapped  figure,  with  a  crutch  under  one  arm  and  a 
stick  in  his  hand,  crept  out  from  Hintock  House 
across  the  lawn  to  the  shelter  of  the  trees,  taking 
thence  a  slow  and  laborious  walk  to  the  nearest  point 
of  the  turnpike  road. 

The  mysterious  personage  was  so  disguised  that 
his  own  wife  would  hardly  have  known  him.  Felice 
Charmond  was  a  practised  hand  at  such  work,  as  well 
she  might  be  ;  and  she  had  done  her  utmost  in  pad- 
ding and  painting  Fitzpiers  with  the  old  materials  of 
her  art  in  recesses  of  that  lumber-room. 

In  the  highway  he  was  met  by  a  covered  carriage 

324 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

which  conveyed  him  to  Sherton  Abbas,  whence  he 
proceeded  to  the  nearest  port  on  the  south  coast,  and 
immediately  crossed  the  Channel. 

But  it  was  known  to  everybody  that  three  days  after 
this  time  Mrs.  Charmond  executed  her  oft-deferred 
plan  of  setting  out  for  a  long  term  of  travel  and  resi- 
dence on  the  Continent.  She  went  off  one  morning 
as  unostentatiously  as  could  be,  and  took  no  maid 
with  her,  having,  she  said,  engaged  one  to  meet  her 
at  a  point  further  on  in  her  route.  After  that,  Hintock 
House,  so  frequently  deserted,  was  to  be  let.  Spring 
had  not  merged  in  summer  when  a  clinching  rumour, 
founded  on  the  best  of  evidence,  reached  the  parish 
and  neighbourhood.  Mrs.  Charmond  and  Fitzpiers 
had  been  seen  together  in  Baden,  in  relations  which 
set  at  rest  the  question  that  had  agitated  the  little 
community  ever  since  the  winter. 

Melbury  had  entered  the  Valley  of  Humiliation 
even  further  than  Grace.     His  spirit  seemed  broken. 

But  once  a  week  he  mechanically  went  to  market 
as  usual,  and  here,  as  he  was  passing  by  the  conduit 
one  day,  his  mental  condition  expressed  largely  by  his 
gait,  he  heard  his  name  spoken  by  a  voice  formerly 
familiar.  He  turned  and  saw  a  certain  Fred  Beaucock 
— once  a  promising  lawyer's  clerk  and  local  dandy, 
who  had  been  called  the  cleverest  fellow  in  Sherton, 
without  whose  brains  the  firm  of  solicitors  employing 
him  would  be  nowhere.  But  later  on  Beaucock  had 
fallen  into  the  mire.  He  was  invited  out  a  good  deal, 
sang  songs  at  agricultural  meetings  and  burgesses' 
dinners :  in  sum,  victualled  himself  with  spirits  more 
frequently  than  was  good  for  the  clever  brains  or  body 
either.  He  lost  his  post,  and  after  an  absence  spent 
in  trying  his  powers  elsewhere  came  back  to  his  native 
town,  where,  at  the  time  of  the  foregoing  events  in 
Hintock,  he  gave  legal  advice  for  astonishingly  small 
fees — mostly  carrying  on  his  profession  in  public-house 
settles,  in  whose  recesses  he  might  often  have  been 
overheard   making   country-people's  wills  for  half-a- 

325 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

crown,  calling  with  a  learned  voice  for  pen  and  ink  and 
a  halfpenny  sheet  of  paper,  on  which  he  drew  up  the 
testament  while  resting  it  in  a  little  space  wiped  with 
his  hand  on  the  table  amid  the  liquid  circles  formed  by 
the  cups  and  glasses.  An  idea  implanted  early  in  life 
is  difficult  to  uproot,  and  many  elderly  tradespeople 
still  clung  to  the  notion  that  Fred  Beaucock  knew  a 
great  deal  of  law. 

It  was  he  who  had  called  Melbury  by  name. 

*You  look  very  down,  Mr.  Melbury — very,  if  I 
may  say  as  much,'  he  observed,  when  the  timber- 
merchant  turned.  *  But  I  know — I  know.  A  very 
sad  case — very.  I  was  bred  to  the  law,  as  you  are 
aware,  and  am  professionally  no  stranger  to  such 
matters.     Well,  Mrs.  Fitzpiers  has  her  remedy.* 

*  How — what — a  remedy.*^'  said  Melbury. 

*  Under  the  new  law,  sir.  A  new  court  was  estab- 
lished last  year,  and  under  the  new  statute,  twenty 
and  twenty-one  Vic,  cap.  eighty- five,  unmarrying  is 
as  easy  as  marrying.  No  more  Acts  of  Parliament 
necessary :  no  longer  one  law  for  the  rich  and  another 
for  the  poor.  But  come  inside — I  was  just  going  to 
have  a  nipperkin  of  rum-hot — I'll  explain  it  all  to  you/ 

The  intelligence  amazed  Melbury,  who  saw  little  of 
newspapers.  And  though  he  was  a  severely  correct 
man  in  his  habits,  and  had  no  taste  for  entering  a 
tavern  with  Fred  Beaucock — nay,  would  have  been 
quite  uninfluenced  by  such  a  character  on  any  other 
matter  in  the  world — such  fascination  lay  in  the  idea 
of  delivering  his  poor  girl  from  bondage  that  it  deprived 
•him  of  the  critical  faculty.  He  could  not  resist  the 
ex-lawyer's  clerk,  and  entered  the  inn. 

Here  they  sat  down  to  the  rum,  which  Melbury 
paid  for  as  a  matter  of  course,  Beaucock  leaning  back 
on  the  settle  with  a  legal  gravity,  that  would  hardly 
allow  him  to  be  conscious  of  the  spirits  before 
him  ;  which  nevertheless  disappeared  with  mysterious 
quickness. 

How  much  of  the  exaggerated  information  on  the 

326 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

then  new  divorce  laws  imparted  by  Beaucock  to  his 
listener  was  the  result  of  ignorance,  and  how  much  of 
dupery,  was  never  ascertained.  But  he  related  such 
a  plausible  story  of  the  ease  with  which  Grace  could 
become  a  free  woman  that  her  father  was  irradiated 
with  the  project ;  and  though  he  scarcely  wetted  his 
lips  Melbury  never  knew  how  he  came  out  of  the  inn, 
or  when  or  where  he  mounted  his  gig  to  pursue  his 
way  homeward. 

But  home  he  found  himself,  his  brain  having  all 
the  way  seemed  to  ring  sonorously  as  a  gong  in  the 
intensity  of  its  stir.  Before  he  had  seen  Grace  he 
was  accidentally  met  by  Winterborne,  who  found  him 
as  Stephen  was  beheld  by  the  Council,  with  a  face 
like  the  face  of  an  angel. 

He  relinquished  his  horse  and  took  Winterborne 
by  the  arm  to  a  heap  of  rendlewood — as  barked  oak 
was  here  called — which  lay  under  a  privet  hedge. 

*  Giles,'  he  said,  when  they  had  sat  down  upon 
the  logs,  *  there's  a  new  law  in  the  land  !  Grace  can 
be  free  quite  easily.  I  only  knew  it  by  the  merest 
accident.  I  might  not  have  found  it  out  for  the  next 
ten  years.  She  can  get  rid  of  him — d'ye  hear — get 
rid  of  him.     Think  of  that,  my  friend  Giles  ! ' 

He  related  what  he  had  learnt  of  the  new  legal 
remedy.  A  subdued  tremulousness  about  the  mouth 
was  all  the  response  that  Winterborne  made  ;  and 
Melbury  added,  *  My  boy,  you  shall  have  her  yet — if 
you  want  her.'  His  feelings  had  gathered  volume  as 
he  said  this,  and  the  articulate  sound  of  the  old  idea 
drowned  his  sight  in  mist. 

*  Are  you  sure — about  this  new  law  ? '  asked 
Winterborne,  so  disquieted  by  a  gigantic  exultation 
which  loomed  alternately  with  fearful  doubt  that  he 
evaded  the  full  acceptance  of  Melbury's  last  state- 
ment. 

Melbury  said  that  he  had  no  manner  of  doubt,  for 
since  his  talk  with  Beaucock  it  had  come  into  his 
mind  that  he  had  seen  some  time  ago  in  the  weekly 

327 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

paper  an  allusion  to  such  a  legal  change  ;  but,  having 
no  interest  in  those  desperate  remedies  at  the 
moment,  he  had  passed  it  over. 

'  But  I'm  not  going  to  let  the  matter  rest  doubtful 
for  a  single  day,  '  he  continued.  *  I  am  going  to 
London.  Beaucock  will  go  with  me,  and  we  shall 
get  the  best  advice  as  soon  as  we  possibly  can. 
Beaucock  is  a  thorough  lawyer — nothing  the  matter 
with  him  but  a  fiery  palate.  I  knew  him  as  the  stay 
and  refuge  of  Sherton  in  knots  of  law  at  one  time.' 

Winterborne's  replies  were  of  the  vaguest.  The 
new  possibility  was  almost  unthinkable  at  the  moment. 
He  was  what  was  called  at  Hintock  *a  solid-going 
fellow ' ;  he  maintained  his  abeyant  mood  not  from 
want  of  reciprocity,  but  from  a  taciturn  hesitancy 
taught  by  life  as  he  knew  it. 

*  But,'  continued  the  timber-merchant,  a  temporary 
crease  or  two  of  anxiety  supplementing  those  already 
established  in  his  forehead  by  time,  *  Grace  is  not  at 
all  well.  Nothing  constitutional,  you  know ;  but  she 
has  been  in  a  low  nervous  state  ever  since  that  night 
of  fright.  I  don't  doubt  but  that  she  will  be  all  right 
soon.  ...  I  wonder  how  she  is  this  evening.-*'  He 
rose  with  the  words  as  if  he  had  too  long  forgotten 
her  personality  in  the  excitement  of  her  previsioned 
career. 

They  had  sat  till  evening  was  beginning  to  dye 
the  garden  brown,  and  now  went  towards  Melbury's 
house,  Giles  a  few  steps  in  the  rear  of  his  old  friend, 
who  was  stimulated  by  the  enthusiasm  of  the  moment 
to  outstep  the  more  ordinary  pace  of  Winterborne. 
He  felt  shy  of  entering  Grace's  presence  as  her 
reconstituted  lover — which  was  how  her  father's 
manner  would  be  sure  to  present  him — before  definite 
information  as  to  her  future  state  was  forthcoming : 
it  seemed  too  nearly  like  the  act  of  those  who  rush  in 
where  angels  fear  to  tread. 

A  chill  to  counterbalance  all  the  glowing  promise 
of  the  day  was  prompt  enough  in  coming.     No  sooner 

328 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

had  he  followed  the  timber-merchant  in  at  the  door 
than  he  heard  Grammer  inform  him  that  Mrs. 
Fitzpiers  was  still  more  unwell  than  she  had  been  in 
the  morning.  Old  Dr.  Jones  being  in  the  neighbour- 
hood they  had  called  him  in,  and  he  had  instantly 
directed  them  to  get  her  to  bed.  They  were  not, 
however,  to  consider  her  illness  serious — a  feverish, 
nervous  attack,  the  result  of  recent  events,  was  what 
she  was  suffering  from — and  she  would  doubtless  be 
well  in  a  few  days. 

Winterborne  therefore  did  not  remain,  and  his 
hope  of  seeing  her  that  evening  was  disappointed. 

Even  this  aggravation  of  her  morning  condition 
did  not  greatly  depress  Melbury.  He  knew,  he  said, 
that  his  daughter's  constitution  was  sound  enough. 
It  was  only  these  domestic  troubles  that  were  pulling 
her  down.  Once  free  she  would  be  blooming  again. 
Melbury  diagnosed  rightly,  as  parents  usually  do. 

He  set  out  for  London  the  next  morning,  Jones 
having  paid  another  visit  and  assured  him  that  he 
might  leave  home  without  uneasiness,  especially  on 
an  errand  of  that  sort,  which  would  the  sooner  put  an 
end  to  her  suspense. 

The  timber-merchant  had  been  away  only  a  day 
or  two  when  it  was  told  in  Hintock  that  Mr.  Fitzpiers's 
hat  had  been  found  in  the  wood.  Later  on  in  the 
afternoon  the  hat  was  brought  to  Melbury's,  and,  by 
a  piece  of  ill-fortune,  into  Grace's  presence.  It  had 
doubtless  lain  in  the  wood  ever  since  his  fall  from  the 
horse ;  but  it  looked  so  clean  and  uninjured — the 
summer  weather  and  leafy  shelter  having  much 
favoured  its  preservation  —  that  Grace  could  not 
believe  it  had  remained  so  long  concealed.  A  very 
little  fact  was  enough  to  set  her  fevered  fancy  at 
work  at  this  juncture — she  thought  him  still  in  the 
neighbourhood,  she  feared  his  sudden  appearance  ; 
and  her  nervous  malady  developed  consequences  so 
grave  that  Dr.  Jones  began  to  look  serious,  and  the 
household  was  alarmed. 

329 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

It  was  the  beginning  of  June,  and  the  cuckoo  at 
this  time  of  the  summer  scarcely  ceased  his  cry  for 
more  than  a  couple  of  hours  during  the  night.  The 
bird's  note,  so  familiar  to  her  ears  from  infancy,  was 
now  absolute  torture  to  the  poor  girl.  On  the 
Friday  following  the  Wednesday  of  Melbury's  de- 
parture, and  the  day  after  the  discovery  of  Fitzpiers's 
hat,  the  cuckoo  began  at  two  o'clock  in  the  morning 
with  a  sudden  cry  from  one  of  Melbury's  apple-trees, 
not  three  yards  from  the  window  of  Grace's  room. 

*  O — he  is  coming !  *  she  cried,  and  in  her  terror 
sprang  clean  out  of  the  bed  upon  the  floor. 

These  starts  and  frights  continued  till  noon  ;  and 
when  the  doctor  had  arrived  and  had  seen  her,  and 
had  talked  with  Mrs.  Melbury,  he  sat  down  and 
meditated.  That  ever-present  terror  it  was  indis- 
pensable to  remove  from  her  mind  at  all  hazards  ; 
and  he  thought  how  this  might  be  done. 

Without  saying  a  word  to  anybody  in  the  house, 
or  to  the  disquieted  Winterborne  waiting  in  the  lane 
below,  Dr.  Jones  went  home  and  wrote  to  Mr. 
Melbury  at  the  address  in  London  he  had  obtained 
from  his  wife.  The  gist  of  his  communication  was 
that  Mrs.  Fitzpiers  should  be  assured  as  soon  as 
possible  that  steps  were  taken  to  sever  the  bond 
which  was  becoming  a  torture  to  her ;  that  she  would 
soon  be  free ;  and  was  even  then  virtually  so.  *  If 
you  can  say  it  at  once  it  may  be  the  means  of  averting 
much  harm,'  he  said.     *  Write  to  herself;  not  to  me.' 

On  Saturday  he  drove  over  to  Hintock,  and 
assured  her  with  mysterious  pacifications  that  in  a 
day  or  two  she  might  expect  to  receive  some  good 
news. 

So  it  turned  out.  When  Sunday  morning  came 
there  was  a  letter  for  Grace  from  her  father.  It 
arrived  at  seven  o'clock,  the  usual  time  at  which  the 
toddling  postman  passed  by  Hintock;  at  eight  Grace 
awoke,  having  slept  an  hour  or  two  for  a  wonder,  and 
Mrs.  Melbury  brought  up  the  letter. 

330 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

*  Can  you  open  it  yourself? '  said  she. 

*  O  yes,  yes  ! '  said  Grace  with  feeble  impatience- 
She  tore  the  envelope,  unfolded  the  sheet,  and  read  ; 
when  a  creeping  blush  tinctured  her  white  neck  and 
cheek. 

Her  father  had  exercised  a  bold  discretion.  He 
informed  her  that  she  need  have  no  further  concern 
about  Fitzpiers's  return  ;  that  she  would  shortly  be  a 
free  woman  ;  and  therefore  if  she  should  desire  to 
wed  her  old  lover — which  he  trusted  was  the  case, 
since  it  was  his  own  deep  wish — she  would  be  in  a 
position  to  do  so.  In  this  Melbury  had  not  written 
beyond  his  belief.  But  he  very  much  stretched  the 
facts  in  adding  that  the  legal  formalities  for  dissolving 
her  union  were  practically  settled. 

The  truth  was  that  on  the  arrival  of  the  doctor's 
letter  poor  Melbury  had  been  much  agitated,  and 
could  with  difficulty  be  prevented  by  Beaucock  from 
returning  to  her  bedside.  What  was  the  use  of  his 
rushing  back  to  Hintock?  Beaucock  had  asked  him. 
The  only  thing  that  could  do  her  any  good  was  a 
breaking  of  the  bond.  Though  he  had  not  as  yet 
had  an  interview  with  the  eminent  solicitor  they  were 
about  to  consult,  he  was  on  the  point  of  seeing  him  ; 
and  the  case  was  clear  enough.  Thus  the  simple 
Melbury,  urged  by  his  parental  alarm  at  her  danger, 
by  the  representations  of  his  companion,  and  by  the 
doctor's  letter,  had  yielded,  and  sat  down  to  tell  her 
roundly  that  she  was  virtually  free. 

*  And  you'd  better  write  also  to  the  gentleman,' 
suggested  Beaucock,  who,  scenting  fame  and  the  germ 
of  a  large  practice  in  the  case,  wished  to  commit 
Melbury  to  it  irretrievably :  to  effect  which  he  knew 
that  nothing  would  be  so  potent  as  awakening  the 
passion  of  Grace  for  Winterborne,  so  that  her  father 
might  not  have,  the  heart  to  withdraw  from  his  attempt 
to  make  her  love  legitimate  when  he  discovered  that 
there  were  difficulties  in  the  way. 

The  nervous,  impatient  Melbury  was  much  pleased 

331 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

with  the  idea  of  *  starting  them  at  once,'  as  he  called 
it.  To  put  his  long -delayed  reparative  scheme  in 
train  had  become  a  passion  with  him  now.  He  added 
to  the  letter  addressed  to  his  daughter  a  passage 
hinting  that  she  ought  to  begin  to  encourage  Winter- 
borne,  lest  she  should  lose  him  altogether ;  and  he 
wrote  to  Giles  that  the  path  was  virtually  open  for 
him  at  last.  Life  was  short,  he  declared ;  he,  her 
father,  was  getting  old  ;  there  were  slips  betwixt  the 
cup  and  the  lip  ;  her  interest  in  him  should  be  re- 
awakened at  once,  that  all  might  be  ready  when  the 
good  time  came  for  uniting  them. 


XXXVIII 

At  these  warm  words  Winterborne  was  much  moved. 
The  novelty  of  the  avowal  rendered  what  it  carried 
with  it  inapprehensible  by  him  all  at  once.  Only  a 
few  short  months  ago  completely  estranged  from  this 
family — beholding  Grace  going  to  and  fro  in  the  dis- 
tance, clothed  with  the  alienating  radiance  of  obvious 
superiority,  the  wife  of  the  then  popular  and  fashion- 
able Fitzpiers,  hopelessly  outside  his  social  boundary 
down  to  so  recent  a  time  that  flowers  then  folded 
were  hardly  faded  yet — he  was  now  asked  by  that 
jealously-guarding  father  of  hers  to  take  courage ;  to 
get  himself  ready  for  the  day  when  he  should  be  able 
to  claim  her. 

The  old  times  came  back  to  him  in  dim  procession. 
How  he  had  been  snubbed ;  how  Melbury  had 
despised  his  Christmas  party :  how  that  sweet,  coy 
Grace  herself  had  looked  down  upon  him  and  his 
household  arrangements,  and  poor  Creedle's  con- 
trivances ! 

Well,  he  could  not  believe  it.  Surely  the  adaman- 
tine barrier  of  marriage  with  another  could  not  be 
pierced  like  this!  It  did  violence  to  custom.  Yet 
a  new  law  might  do  anything.  But  was  it  at  all 
within  the  bounds  of  probability  that  a  woman  who, 
over  and  above  her  own  attainments,  had  been  ac- 
customed to  those  of  a  cultivated  professional  man, 
could  ever  be  the  wife  of  such  as  he  ? — that  the  ceorl 
Giles  Winterborne  would  be  able  to  make  such  a 
dainty  girl  happy  now  that  she  stood  in  a  position 

333 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

further  removed  from  his  own  than  at  first  ?  He 
was  full  of  doubt. 

Nevertheless,  it  was  not  in  him  to  show  backward- 
ness. To  act  so  promptly  as  Melbury  desired  him 
to  act  seemed,  indeed,  scarcely  wise,  because  of  the 
uncertainty  of  events.  Giles  knew  nothing  of  legal 
procedure  ;  but  he  did  know  that  for  him  to  step  up 
to  Grace  as  a  lover  before  the  bond  which  bound  her 
was  actually  dissolved  was  simply  an  extravagant 
dream  of  her  father's  overstrained  mind.  He  pitied 
Melbury  for  his  almost  childish  enthusiasm,  and  saw 
that  the  ageing  man  must  have  suffered  acutely  to  be 
weakened  to  this  unreasoning  desire. 

Winterborne  was  far  too  magnanimous  to  harbour 
any  cynical  conjecture  that  the  timber-merchant,  in 
his  intense  affection  for  Grace,  was  courting  him  now 
because  that  young  lady,  when  disunited,  would  be 
left  in  an  anomalous  position,  to  escape  which  a  bad 
husband  was  better  than  none.  He  felt  quite  sure 
that  his  old  friend  was  simply  on  tenterhooks  of 
anxiety  to  repair  the  almost  irreparable  error  of 
dividing  two  whom  nature  had  striven  to  join  together 
in  earlier  days,  and  that  in  his  ardour  to  do  this  he 
was  oblivious  of  formalities.  The  cautious  supervision 
of  his  past  years  had  overleapt  itself  at  last.  Hence 
Winterborne  perceived  that,  in  this  new  beginning, 
the  necessary  care  not  to  compromise  Grace  by  too 
early  advances  must  be  exercised  by  himself 

There  is  no  such  thing  as  a  stationary  love :  men 
are  either  loving  more  or  loving  less  ;  but  Giles  re- 
cognized no  decline  in  his  sense  of  her  dearness.  He 
had  been  labouring  ever  since  his  rejection  and  her 
marriage  to  reduce  his  former  passion  to  a  docile 
friendship,  out  of  pure  regard  to  its  expediency ;  but 
hitherto  he  had  experienced  no  great  success  in  his 
attempt. 

A  week  and  more  passed  and  there  was  no  further 
news  of  Melbury.  But  the  effect  of  the  intelligence 
he  had   already  transmitted   upon   the  elastic-nerved 

334 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

daughter  of  the  woods  had  been  much  as  the  old 
surgeon  Jones  had  surmised.  It  had  soothed  her 
perturbed  spirit  better  than  all  the  opiates  in  the 
pharmacopoeia.  She  had  slept  unbrokenly  a  whole 
night  and  a  day.  The  *  new  law '  was  to  her  a 
mysterious,  beneficent,  god  -  like  entity,  lately  de- 
scended upon  earth,  that  would  make  her  as  she  once 
had  been  without  trouble  or  annoyance.  Her  position 
fretted  her,  its  abstract  features  rousing  an  aversion 
which  was  greater  than  her  aversion  to  the  personality 
of  him  who  had  caused  it.  It  was  mortifying,  pro- 
ductive of  slights,  undignified.  Him  she  could  forget: 
her  circumstances  she  had  always  with  her. 

She  saw  nothing  of  Winterborne  during  the  days 
of  her  recovery ;  and  perhaps  on  that  account  her 
fancy  wove  about  him  a  more  romantic  tissue  than 
it  could  have  done  if  he  had  stood  before  her  with 
all  the  specks  and  flaws  inseparable  from  concrete 
humanity.  He  rose  upon  her  memory  as  the  fruit- 
god  and  the  wood-god  in  alternation :  sometimes 
lealy  and  smeared  with  green  lichen,  as  she  had  seen 
him  amongst  the  sappy  boughs  of  the  plantations: 
sometimes  cider-stained  and  starred  with  apple-pips, 
as  she  had  met  him  on  his  return  from  cider-making 
in  Blackmoor  Vale,  with  his  vats  and  presses  beside 
him.  In  her  secret  heart  she  approximated  to  her 
father's  enthusiasm  in  wishing  to  show  Giles  once  for 
all  how  she  still  regarded  him. 

The  question  whether  the  future  would  indeed 
bring  them  together  for  life  was  a  standing  wonder 
with  her.  She  knew  that  it  could  not  with  any 
propriety  do  so  just  yet.  But  reverently  believing  in 
her  father's  sound  judgment  and  knowledge,  as  good 
girls  are  wont  to  do,  she  remembered  what  he  had 
written  about  her  giving  a  hint  to  Winterborne  lest 
there  should  be  risk  in  delay,  and  her  feelings  were 
not  averse  to  such  a  step,  so  far  as  it  could  be  done 
without  danger  at  this  early  stage  of  the  proceedings. 

From  being  but  a  frail  phantom  of  her  former  self 

335 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

she  returned  in  bounds  to  a  condition  of  passable 
hopefulness.  She  bloomed  again  in  the  face  in  the 
course  of  a  few  days,  and  was  well  enough  to  go  about 
as  usual. 

One  day  Mrs.  Melbury  proposed  that  for  a  change 
she  should  be  driven  in  the  gig  to  Sherton  market, 
whither  Melbury's  man  was  going  on  other  errands. 
Grace  had  no  business  whatever  in  Sherton  ;  but  it 
crossed  her  mind  that  Winterborne  would  probably 
be  there,  and  this  made  the  thought  of  such  a  drive 
interesting. 

On  the  way  she  saw  nothing  of  him ;  but  when 
the  horse  was  walking  slowly  through  the  obstructions 
of  Sheep  Street  she  discerned  the  young  man  on  the 
pavement.  She  thought  of  that  time  when  he  had 
been  standing  under  his  apple-tree  on  her  return  from 
school,  and  of  the  tender  opportunity  then  missed 
through  her  fastidiousness.  Her  heart  rose  in  her 
throat.  She  abjured  all  fastidiousness  now.  Nor  did 
she  forget  the  last  occasion  on  which  she  had  beheld 
him  in  that  town,  making  cider  in  the  courtyard  of  the 
Earl  of  Wessex  Hotel,  while  she  was  figuring  as  a 
fine  lady  in  the  balcony  above. 

Grace  directed  the  man  to  set  her  down  there  in 
the  midst,  and  immediately  went  up  to  her  lover. 
Giles  had  not  before  observed  her,  and  his  eyes  now 
suppressedly  looked  his  pleasure,  without,  perhaps, 
quite  so  much  embarrassment  as  had  formerly  marked 
him  at  such  meetings. 

When  a  few  words  had  been  spoken  she  said 
invitingly,  *  I  have  nothing  to  do.  Perhaps  you  are 
deeply  engaged  ? ' 

*  1  ?  Not  a  bit.  My  business  now  at  the  best  of 
times  is  small,  I  am  sorry  to  say.* 

*  Well,  then — I  am  going  into  the  Abbey.  Come 
along  with  me.' 

The  proposition  had  suggested  itself  as  a  quick 
escape  from  publicity,  for  many  eyes  were  regarding 
her.     She  had  hoped  that  sufficient  time  had  elapsed 

336 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

for  the  extinction  of  curiosity ;  but  it  was  quite  other- 
wise. The  people  looked  at  her  with  tender  interest 
as  the  deserted  girl-wife — without  obtrusiveness,  and 
without  vulgarity  ;  but  she  was  ill  prepared  for  scrutiny 
in  any  shape. 

They  walked  about  the  Abbey  aisles,  and  presently 
sat  down.  Not  a  soul  was  in  the  building  save  them- 
selves. She  regarded  a  high  marble  tomb  to  the 
last  representative  of  an  extinct  Earldom,  without  a 
thought  that  it  was  the  family  with  which  Fitzpiers 
was  maternally  connected ;  and  with  her  head  side- 
ways tentatively  asked  her  companion  if  he  remem- 
bered the  last  time  they  were  in  that  town  alone. 

He  remembered  it  perfectly,  and  remarked,  *  You 
were  a  proud  damsel  then,  and  as  dainty  as  you  were 
high.     Perhaps  you  are  now  ?  ' 

Grace  slowly  shook  her  head.  *  Affliction  has 
taken  all  that  out  of  me,'  she  answered  impressively. 
'  Perhaps  I  am  too  far  the  other  way  now.'  As  there 
was  something  lurking  in  this  that  she  could  not 
explain,  she  added  so  quickly  as  not  to  allow  him  time 
to  think  of  it,  '  Has  my  father  written  to  you  at  all? ' 

*  Yes,'  said  Winterborne. 

She  glanced  ponderingly  up  at  him.  *  Not  about 
me?' 

*Yes.' 

She  saw  that  he  had  been  bidden  to  take  the  hint 
as  to  the  future  which  she  had  been  bidden  to  give, 
and  the  discovery  sent  a  scarlet  pulsation  through  her 
for  the  moment.  However  it  was  only  Giles  who  sat 
there,  of  whom  she  had  no  fear ;  and  her  self-possession 
returned. 

*  He  said  I  was  to  sound  you  with  a  view  to — 
what  you  will  understand,  if  you  care  to,*  continued 
Winterborne  in  a  low  voice.  Having  been  put  on 
this  track  by  herself  he  was  not  disposed  to  abandon 
it  in  a  hurry. 

They  had  been  children  together,  and  there  was 
between  them  that  familiarity  as  to  personal  affairs 

337 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

which  only  such  acquaintanceship  can  give.  *Vou 
know,  Giles,'  she  answered,  speaking  in  a  very 
practical  tone,  *  that  that  is  all  very  well ;  but  I  am  in 
a  very  anomalous  position  at  present,  and  I  cannot  say 
anything  to  the  point  about  such  things  as  those.' 

*No?'  he  said,  with  a  stray  air  as  regarded  the 
subject.     He  was  looking  at  her  with  a  curious  con- 
sciousness of  discovery. 
x'S^^  He  had  not  been  imagining  that  their  renewed 

jT   J  intercourse  would   show  her   to  him  thus.     For   the 
M\    first  time  he  realized  an  unexpectedness  in  her,  which 

/^  after  all  should  not  have  been  unexpected.  She 
before  him  was  not  the  girl  Grace  Melbury,  whom  he 
*had  used  to  know.  Of  course,  he  might  easily  have 
.prefigured  as  much  ;  but  it  had  never  occurred  to  him. 
She  was  a  woman  who  had  been  married ;  she  had 
moved  on ;  and  without  having  lost  her  girlish 
modesty  she  had  lost  her  girlish  shyness.  The 
inevitable  change,  though  known  to  him,  had  not 
been  heeded ;  and  it  struck  him  into  a  momentary 
fixity.  The  truth  was  that  he  had  never  come  into 
close  comradeship  with  her  since  her  engagement  to 
Fitzpiers,  with  the  brief  exception  of  the  evening 
encounter  under  High-Stoy  Hill,  when  she  met  him 
with  his  cider  apparatus ;  and  that  interview  had  been 
of  too  cursory  a  kind  for  insight. 

Winterborne  had  advanced,  too.  Shy  though  he 
was  he  could  criticize  her  somewhat.  Times  had  been 
when  to  criticize  a  single  trait  in  Grace  Melbury 
w^ould  have  lain  as  far  beyond  his  powers  as  to 
criticize  a  deity.  And  this  thing  was  sure  as  the 
result  of  his  criticism  :  it  was  a  new  woman  in  many 
ways  whom  he  had  come  out  to  see  :  a  creature  of 
more  ideas,  more  dignity,  and,  above  all,  more 
\  assurance,  than  the  original  Grace  had  been  capable 
of.  He  could  not  at  first  decide  whether  he  were 
pleased  or  displeased  at  this.  But  upon  the  whole 
the  novelty  attracted  him. 

She  was  so  sweet  and  sensitive  that  she  feared  his 

338 


\ 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

silence  betokened  something  in  his  brain  of  the  nature 
of  an  enemy  to  her. 

'  What  are  you  thinking  of  that  makes  those 
Hnes  come  in  your  forehead  ? '  she  asked.  *  I  did 
not  mean  to  offend  you  by  speaking  of  the  time  being 
premature.' 

Touched  by  the  genuine  loving-kindness  which 
had  lain  at  the  foundation  of  these  words,  and  much 
moved,  Winterborne  turned  his  face  aside  as  he  took 
her  by  the  hand.  He  was  grieved  that  he  had 
criticized  her. 

*  You  are  very  good,  dear  Grace,'  he  said  in  a  low 
voice.  '  You  are  better,  much  better,  than  you  used 
to  be.' 

'How.?' 

He  could  not  very  well  tell  her  how,  and  said  with 
an  evasive  smile,  *  You  are  prettier  ; '  which  was  not 
what  he  really  had  meant.  He  then  remained  still 
holding  her  right  hand  in  his  own  right,  so  that  they 
faced  in  opposite  ways ;  and,  as  he  did  not  let  go  she 
ventured  upon  a  tender  remonstrance. 

*  I  think  we  have  gone  as  far  as  we  ought  to  go  at 
present — and  far  enough  to  satisfy  my  poor  father 
that  we  are  the  same  as  ever.  You  see,  Giles,  my 
case  is  not  settled  yet,  and  if — O,  suppose  I  never  get 
free  ! — there  should  be  any  hitch  or  informality  ! ' 

She  drew  a  catching  breath  and  turned  pale.  The 
duologue  had  been  affectionate  comedy  up  to  this 
point.  The  gloomy  atmosphere  of  the  past,  and  the 
still  gloomy  horizon  of  the  present,  had  been  for 
the  interval  forgotten.  Now  the  whole  environment 
came  back ;  the  due  balance  of  shade  among  the  light 
was  restored. 

*  It  is  sure  to  be  all  right,  I  trust,'  she  resumed  in 
uneasy  accents.  *  What  did  my  father  say  the  solicitor 
had  told  him  ?  * 

'  O — that  all  is  sure  enough.  The  case  is  so  clear 
— nothing  could  be  clearer.  But  the  legal  part  is  not 
yet  quite  done  and  finished,  as  is  natural' 

339 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

*  O  no, — of  course  not,'  she  said,  sunk  in  meek 
thought.  *  But  father  said  it  was  almost — did  he  not  ? 
Do  you  know  anything  about  the  new  law  that  makes 
these  things  so  easy  ?  ' 

*  Nothing — except  the  general  fact  that  it  enables 
ill-assorted  husbands  and  wives  to  part  in  a  way  they 
could  not  formerly  do  without  an  Act  of  Parliament.' 

*  Have  you  to  sign  a  paper,  or  swear  anything  ? 
Is  it  something  like  that  ?  ' 

*  Yes,  I  believe  so.' 

*  How  long  has  it  been  introduced  ?' 

*  About  six  months  or  a  year,  the  lawyer  said,  I 
think.' 

To  hear  these  two  Arcadian  innocents  talk  of 
imperial  law  would  have  made  a  humane  person 
weep  who  should  have  known  what  a  dangerous 
structure  they  were  building  up  on  their  supposed 
knowledge.  They  remained  in  thought,  like  children 
in  the  presence  of  the  incomprehensible. 

'  Giles,'  she  said  at  last,  *  it  makes  me  quite  weary 
when  I  think  how  serious  my  situation  is,  or  has  been. 
Shall  we  not  go  out  from  here  now,  as  it  may  seem 
rather  fast  of  me — our  being  so  long  together,  I  mean 
— if  anybody  were  to  see  us  ?  I  am  almost  sure,' 
she  added  uncertainly,  *  that  I  ought  not  to  let  you 
hold  my  hand  yet,  knowing  that  the  documents — or 
whatever  it  may  be — have  not  been  signed  ;  so  that 
I  am  still  as  married  as  ever — or  almost.  My  dear 
father  has  forgotten  himself.  Not  that  I  feel  morally 
bound  to  any  one  else  after  what  has  taken  place — 
no  woman  of  spirit  could — now,  too,  that  several 
months  have  passed.  But  I  wish  to  keep  the  pro- 
prieties as  well  as  I  can.' 

*  Yes,  yes.  Still,  your  father  reminds  us  that  life 
is  short.  I  myself  feel  that  it  is ;  that  is  why  I 
wished  to  understand  you  in  this  that  we  have 
begun.  At  times,  dear  Grace,  since  receiving  your 
father's  letter,  I  am  as  uneasy  and  fearful  as  a  child 
at  what  he  said.      If  one  of  us  were  to  die  before 

340 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

the  formal  signing  and  sealing  that  is  to  release  you 
have  been  done — if  we  should  drop  out  of  the  world 
and  never  have  made  the  most  of  this  little,  short, 
but  real  opportunity,  I  should  think  to  myself  as  I 
sank  down  dying,  **  Would  to  my  God  that  I  had 
spoken  out  my  whole  heart — given  her  one  poor 
little  kiss  when  I  had  the  chance  to  give  it !  But 
I  never  did,  although  she  had  promised  to  be  mine 
some  day ;  and  now  I  never  can."  That's  what  I 
should  think.'  j 

She  had  begun  by  watching  the  words  from  his 
lips  with  a  mournful  regard,  as  though  their  passage 
were  visible ;  but  as  he  went  on  she  dropped  her 
glance.  ! 

*  Yes,'  she  said,  *  I  have  thought  that,  too.  And, 
because  I  have  thought  it,  I  by  no  means  meant,  in 
speaking  of  the  proprieties,  to  be  reserved  and  cold 
to  you  who  loved  me  so  long  ago,  or  to  hurt  your 
heart  as  I  used  to  at  that  thoughtless  time.  O,  not 
at  all,  indeed!  But — ought  I  to  allow  you — O,  it  is 
too  quick — surely  !  '  Her  eyes  filled  with  tears  of 
bewildered,  alarmed  emotion. 

Winterborne  was  too  straightforward  to  influence 
her  further  against  her  better  judgment.  *  Yes — I 
suppose  it  is,'  he  said  repentantly.  *  I'll  wait  till 
all  is  settled.  What  has  your  father  said  in  his 
letters  to  you  ?  ' 

He  meant  about  his  progress  with  the  petition  ; 
but  she,  mistaking  him,  frankly  spoke  of  the  personal 
part.  *  He  says — what  I  have  implied.  Should  I  tell 
more  plainly  ? ' 

*  O  no — don't,  if  it  is  a  secret.* 

*  Not  at  all.  I  will  tell  every  word,  straight  out, 
Giles,  if  you  wish.  He  says  I  am  to  encourage  you. 
There !  But  I  cannot  obey  him  further  to-day. 
Come,  let  us  go  now.'  She  gently  slid  her  hand 
from  his  and  went  in  front  of  him  out  of  the  Abbey. 

'  I  was  thinking  of  getting  some  dinner,'  said 
Winterborne,  changing  to  the  prosaic  as  they  walked. 

341 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

*  And  you,  too,  must  require  something.  Do  let  me 
take  you  to  a  place  I  know.' 

Grace  was  almost  without  a  friend  in  the  world 
outside  her  father's  house  ;  her  life  with  Fitzpiers 
had  brought  her  no  society  ;  had  sometimes,  indeed, 
brought  her  deeper  solitude  than  any  she  had  ever 
known  before.  Hence  it  was  a  treat  to  her  to  find 
herself  again  the  object  of  thoughtful  care.  But  she 
questioned  if  to  go  publicly  to  dine  alone  with  Giles 
Winterborne  were  not  a  proposal  due  rather  to  his 
unsophistication  than  to  his  prudence.  She  said 
gently  that  she  would  much  prefer  his  ordering  her 
lunch  at  some  place,  and  then  coming  to  tell  her 
it  was  ready,  while  she  remained  in  the  Abbey 
porch.  Giles  saw  her  secret  reasoning,  thought  how 
hopelessly  blind  to  propriety  he  was  beside  her,  and 
went  to  do  as  she  wished. 

He  was  not  absent  more  than  ten  minutes,  and 
found  Grace  where  he  had  left  her. 

'  It  will  be  quite  ready  by  the  time  you  get  there,' 
he  said,  and  told  her  the  name  of  the  inn  at  which 
the  meal  had  been  ordered,  which  was  one  that  she 
had  never  heard  of. 

*  I'll  find  it  by  inquiry,'  said  Grace,  setting  out. 

*  And  shall  I  see  you  again  ?  ' 

*  O  yes — come  to  me  there.  It  will  not  be  like 
going  together.  I  shall  want  you  to  find  my  father's 
man  and  the  gig  for  me.' 

He  waited  on  some  ten  minutes  or  a  quarter  of  an 
hour,  till  he  thought  her  lunch  ended,  and  that  he 
might  fairly  take  advantage  of  her  invitation  to  start 
her  on  her  way  home.  He  went  straight  to  where  he 
had  sent  her,  an  old  commercial  tavern,  scrupulously 
clean,  but  humble  and  inexpensive.  On  his  way  he 
had  an  occasional  misgiving  as  to  whether  the  place 
had  been  elegant  enough  for  her ;  and  as  soon  as  he 
entered  it,  and  saw  her  ensconced  there,  he  perceived 
that  he  had  blundered. 

Grace  was  seated  in  the  only  dining-room  that  the 

342 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

simple  old  hostelry  could  boast  of,  which  was  also  a 
general  parlour  on  market  days :  a  long,  low  apart- 
ment, with  a  sanded  floor  herring-boned  with  a  broom, 
a  wide,  red-curtained  window  to  the  street,  and 
another  to  the  garden.  Grace  had  retreated  to  the 
end  of  the  room  looking  out  upon  the  latter,  the  front 
part  being  full  of  a  mixed  company  of  dairymen  and 
butchers  which  had,  to  be  just  to  him,  dropped  in 
since  he  was  there. 

She  was  in  a  mood  of  the  greatest  depression. 
On  arriving  and  seeing  what  the  tavern  was  like  she 
had  been  taken  by  surprise  ;  but  having  gone  too  far 
to  retreat  she  had  heroically  entered  and  sat  down  on 
the  well-scrubbed  settle,  opposite  the  narrow  table 
with  its  knives  and  steel  forks,  tin  pepper-boxes,  blue 
salt-cellars,  and  posters  advertising  the  sale  of  bullocks 
against  the  wall.  The  last  time  that  she  had  taken 
any  meal  in  a  public  place  it  had  been  with  Fitzpiers 
at  the  dignified  Earl  of  Wessex  Hotel  in  that  town, 
after  a  two  months'  roaming  and  sojourning  at  the 
gigantic  hotels  of  the  Continent. 

How  could  she  have  expected  any  other  kind  of 
accommodation  in  present  circumstances  than  such  as 
Giles  had  provided  ?  And  yet  how  unprepared  she 
was  for  this  change  !  The  tastes  that  she  had  acquired 
from  Fitzpiers  had  been  imbibed  so  subtly  that  she 
hardly  knew  she  possessed  them  till  confronted  by 
this  contrast.  The  elegant  Fitzpiers,  in  fact,  at  that 
very  moment  owed  a  long  bill  at  the  above-mentioned 
hotel  for  the  luxurious  style  in  which  he  used  to  put 
her  up  there  whenever  they  drove  to  Sherton.  But 
such  is  social  sentiment  that  she  had  been  quite  com- 
fortable under  those  debt-impending  conditions,  whilst 
she  felt  humiliated  by  her  present  situation,  which 
Winterborne  had  paid  for  honestly  on  the  nail. 

He  had  noticed  in  a  moment  that  she  shrank  from 
her  position,  and  all  his  pleasure  was  gone.  It  was 
the  same  susceptibility  over  again  which  had  spoiled 
his  Christmas  party  long  ago. 

343 


THE  VVOODLANDERS 

But  he  did  not  know  that  this  recrudescence  was 
only  the  casual  result  of  Grace's  apprenticeship  to 
what  she  was  determined  to  learn  in  spite  of  it — a 
consequence  of  one  of  those  sudden  surprises  which 
confront  everybody  bent  upon  turning  over  a  new  leaf. 
She  had  finished  her  lunch,  which  he  saw  had  been  a 
very  mincing  performance  ;  and  he  brought  her  out  of 
the  house  as  soon  as  he  could. 

'  Now,'  he  said,  with  great  sad  eyes,  '  you  have  not 
finished  at  all  well,  I  know !  Come  round  to  the  Earl 
of  Wessex.  I'll  order  a  tea  there.  I  did  not  remember 
that  what  was  good  enough  for  me  was  not  good 
enough  for  you.' 

Her  face  faded  into  an  aspect  of  deep  distress 
when  she  saw  what  had  happened.  *  O  no,  Giles ! ' 
she  said  with  extreme  earnestness ;  *  certainly  not. 
Why  do  you — say  that,  when  you  know  better  ?  You 
ever  will  misunderstand  me.' 

*  Indeed,  that's  not  so,  Mrs.  Fitzpiers.  Can  you 
deny  that  you  felt  out  of  place  at  that  tavern  ? ' 

*  I  don't  know !  .  .  .  Well,  since  you  make  me 
speak,  I  do  not  deny  it.* 

*  And  yet  I  have  felt  at  home  there  these  twenty 
years.  Your  husband  used  always  to  take  you  to  the 
Earl  of  Wessex,  did  he  not  ?  ' 

*  Yes,'  she  reluctantly  admitted.  How  could  she 
explain  in  the  street  of  a  market-town  that  it  was  her 
superficial  and  transitory  taste  which  had  been  offended, 
and  not  her  nature  or  her  affection  ? 

Fortunately,  or  unfortunately,  at  that  moment  they 
saw  Melbury's  man  driving  vacantly  along  the  street 
in  search  of  her,  the  hour  having  passed  at  which  he 
had  been  told  to  take  her  up.  Winterborne  hailed 
him,  and  she  was  powerless  then  to  prolong  the 
discourse.  She  entered  the  vehicle  sadly,  and  the 
horse  trotted  away. 


I 
XXXIX  ' 

All  night  did  Winterborne  think  over  that  unsatis- 
factory ending  of  a  pleasant  time,  forgetting  the 
pleasant  time  itself.  He  feared  anew  that  they  could 
never  be  happy  together,  even  should  she  be  free  to 
choose  him.  She  was  accomplished  :  he  was  unrefined. 
It  was  the  original  difficulty,  which  he  was  too 
thoughtful  to  recklessly  ignore  as  some  men  would 
have  done  in  his  place. 

He  was  one  of  those  silent,  unobtrusive  beings 
who  want  little  from  others  in  the  way  of  favour  or 
condescension,  and  perhaps  on  that  very  account 
scrutinize  those  others*  behaviour  too  closely.  He 
was  not  versatile,  but  one  in  whom  a  hope  or  belief 
which  had  once  had  its  rise,  meridian,  and  decline, 
seldom  again  exactly  recurred,  as  in  the  breasts  of 
more  sanguine  mortals.  He  had  once  worshipped  her, 
laid  out  his  life  to  suit  her,  wooed  her,  and  lost  her. 
Though  it  was  with  almost  the  same  zest  it  was  with 
not  quite  the  same  hope  that  he  had  begun  to  tread 
the  old  tracks  again,  and  had  allowed  himself  to  be  so 
charmed  with  her  that  day. 

Move  another  step  towards  her  he  would  not.  He 
would  even  repulse  her — as  a  tribute  to  conscience. 
It  would  be  sheer  sin  to  let  her  prepare  a  pitfall  for 
her  happiness  not  much  smaller  than  the  first  by 
inveigling  her  into  a  union  with  such  as  he.  Her  poor 
father  was  now  blind  to  these  subtleties,  which  he  had 
formerly  beheld  as  in  noontide  light.  It  was  his  own 
duty  to  declare  them — for  her  dear  sake.    ^  -- 

345 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

Grace,  too,  had  a  very  uncomfortable  night,  and 
her  solicitous  embarrassment  was  not  lessened  the 
next  morning  when  another  letter  from  her  father  was 
put  into  her  hands.  Its  tenor  was  an  intenser  strain 
of  the  one  that  had  preceded  it. 

After  stating  how  extremely  glad  he  was  to  hear 
that  she  was  better,  and  able  to  get  out  of  doors,  he 
went  on : 

*  This  is  a  wearisome  business,  the  solicitor  we  have  come 
to  see  being  out  of  town.  I  do  not  know  when  I  shall  get 
home.  My  great  anxiety  in  this  delay  is  still  lest  you  should 
lose  Giles  Winterborne.  I  cannot  rest  at  night  for  thinking 
that  while  our  business  is  hanging  fire  he  may  become 
estranged,  or  in  his  shyness  go  away  from  the  neighbourhood. 
I  have  set  my  heart  upon  seeing  him  your  husband,  if  you 
ever  have  another.  Do  then,  Grace,  give  him  some  temporary 
encouragement,  even  though  it  is  over-early.  For  when  I 
consider  the  past  I  do  think  God  will  forgive  me  and  you  for 
being  a  little  forward.  I  have  another  reason  for  this,  my 
dear.  I  feel  myself  going  rapidly  down  hill,  and  late  affairs 
have  still  further  helped  me  that  way.  And  until  this  thing 
is  done  I  cannot  rest  in  peace.' 

He  added  a  postscript : 

*I  have  just  heard  that  the  solicitor  is  to  be  seen  to- 
morrow. Possibly,  therefore,  I  shall  return  in  the  evening 
after  you  get  this.' 

The  paternal  longing  ran  on  all-fours  with  her  own 
desire ;  and  yet  in  forwarding  it  yesterday  she  had 
been  on  the  brink  of  giving  offence.  While  craving 
to  be  a  country  girl  again,  just  as  her  father  requested  ; 
to  put  off  the  old  Eve,  the  fastidious  miss — or  rather 
madam — completely,  her  first  attempt  had  been  beaten 
by  the  unexpected  vitality  of  that  fastidiousness.  Her 
father  on  returning  and  seeing  the  trifling  coolness  of 
Giles  would  be  sure  to  say  that  the  same  perversity 
which  had  led  her  to  make  difficulties  about  marrying 
Fitzpiers  was  now  prompting  her  to  blow  hot  and  cold 
with  poor  Winterborne. 

If  the  latter  had  been  the  most  subtle  hand  at 

346 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

touching  the  stops  of  her  delicate  soul  instead  of  one 
who  had  just  bound  himself  to  let  her  be  mute  on  all 
that  appertained  to  his  personality,  he  could  not  have 
acted  more  seductively  than  he  did  that  day.  He 
chanced  to  be  superintending  some  temporary  work 
in  a  field  opposite  her  windows.  She  could  not 
discover  what  he  was  doing,  but  she  read  his  mood 
keenly  and  truly :  she  could  see  in  his  coming  and 
going  an  air  of  determined  abandonment  of  the  whole 
prospect  that  lay  in  her  direction. 

O,  how  she  longed  to  make  it  up  with  him  !  Her 
father  coming  in  the  evening  —  which  meant,  she 
supposed,  that  all  formalities  would  be  in  train,  her 
marriage  virtually  annulled,  and  she  be  free  to  be  won 
again — how  could  she  look  him  in  the  face  if  he  should 
see  them  estranged  thus  ? 

It  being  a  fair  green  afternoon  in  June  she  seated 
herself  in  the  garden,  in  the  rustic  chair  which  stood 
under  the  laurel-bushes,  made  of  peeled  oak  branches 
that  came  to  Melbury's  premises  as  refuse  after 
barking -time.  The  mass  of  full -juiced  leafage  on 
the  heights  around  her  was  just  swayed  into  faint 
gestures  by  a  nearly  spent  wind  which,  even  in  its 
enfeebled  state,  did  not  reach  her  shelter.  She  had 
expected  Giles  to  call — to  inquire  how  she  had  got 
home,  or  something  or  other  ;  but  he  did  not  come. 
And  he  still  tantalized  her  by  going  athwart  and 
across  that  orchard  opposite.  She  could  see  him  as 
she  sat. 

A  slight  diversion  was  presently  created  by 
Creedle  bringing  him  a  letter.  She  knew  from  this 
that  Creedle  had  just  come  from  Sherton,  and  had 
called  as  usual  at  the  post-office  for  anything  that  had 
arrived  by  the  afternoon  post,  of  which  there  was  no 
delivery  at  Hintock.  She  pondered  on  what  the 
letter  might  contain — particularly  whether  it  were  a 
second  refresher  for  Winterborne  from  her  father,  like 
her  own  of  the  morning. 

But  it  appeared  to  have  no  bearing  upon  hersel* 

347 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

whatever.  Giles  read  its  contents  and  almost  im- 
mediately turned  away  to  a  gap  in  the  hedge  of  the 
orchard — if  that  could  be  called  a  hedge  which,  owing 
to  the  drippings  of  the  trees,  was  little  more  than  a 
bank  with  a  bush  upon  it  here  and  there.  He 
entered  the  plantation,  and  was  no  doubt  going  that 
way  homeward  to  the  mysterious  hut  he  occupied 
on  the  other  side  of  the  woodland. 

The  sad  sands  were  running  swiftly  through 
Time's  glass  ;  she  had  often  felt  it  in  these  latter 
days ;  and,  like  Giles,  she  felt  it  doubly  now  after  the 
solemn  and  pathetic  reminder  in  her  father's  com- 
munication. Her  freshness  would  pass,  the  long- 
suffering  devotion  of  Giles  might  suddenly  end — 
might  end  that  very  hour.  Men  were  so  strange. 
The  thought  took  away  from  her  all  her  former 
reticence  and  made  her  action  bold.  She  started 
from  her  seat.  If  the  little  breach,  quarrel,  or  what- 
ever it  might  be  called,  of  yesterday,  was  to  be 
healed  up  it  must  be  done  by  her  on  the  instant. 
She  crossed  into  the  orchard  and  clambered  through 
the  gap  after  Giles,  just  as  he  was  diminishing  to  a 
faun-like  figure  under  the  green  canopy  and  over  the 
brown  floor. 

Grace  had  been  wrong  —  very  far  wrong  —  in 
assuming  that  the  letter  had  no  reference  to  herself 
because  Giles  had  turned  away  into  the  wood  after  its 
perusal.  It  was,  sad  to  say,  because  the  missive 
had  so  much  reference  to  herself  that  he  had 
thus  turned  away.  He  feared  that  his  grieved  dis- 
comfiture might  be  observed. 

The  letter  was  from  Beaucock,  written  a  few  hours 
later  than  Melbury's  to  his  daughter.  It  announced 
failure. 

Giles  had  once  done  that  thriftless  man  a  good 
turn,  and  now  was  the  moment  when  Beaucock  had 
chosen  to  remember  it,  in  his  own  way.  During  his 
absence  in  town  with  Melbury  the  lawyer's  clerk  had 
naturally  heard  a  great  deal  of  the  timber-merchant's 

348 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

family  scheme  of  justice  to  Giles,  and  his  communica- 
tion was  to  inform  Winterborne  at  the  earliest  possible 
moment  that  their  attempt  had  failed,  in  order  that 
the  young  man  should  not  place  himself  in  a  false 
position  towards  Grace  in  the  belief  of  its  coming 
success.  The  news  was,  in  sum,  that  Fitzpiers's  con- 
duct had  not  been  sufficiently  cruel  to  Grace  to  enable 
her  to  snap  the  bond.  She  was  apparently  doomed 
to  be  his  wife  till  the  end  of  the  chapter. 

Winterborne  quite  forgot  his  superficial  differences 
with  the  poor  girl  under  the  warm  rush  of  deep  and 
distracting  love  for  her  which  the  almost  tragical 
information  engendered. 

To  renounce  her  for  ever — that  was  then  the  end 
of  it  for  him,  after  all.  There  was  no  longer  any 
question  about  suitability,  or  room  for  tiffs  on  petty 
tastes.  The  curtain  had  fallen  again  between  them. 
She  could  not  be  his.  The  cruelty  of  their  late  re- 
vived hope  was  now  terrible.  How  could  they  all  have 
been  so  simple  as  to  suppose  this  thing  could  be  done  ? 

It  was  at  this  moment  that,  hearing  some  one 
coming  behind  him,  he  turned  and  saw  her  hastening 
on  between  the  thickets.  He  perceived  in  an  instant 
that  she  did  not  know  the  blighting  news. 

*  Giles,  why  didn't  you  come  across  to  me  ? '  she 
asked  with  arch  reproach.  *  Didn't  you  see  me 
sitting  there  ever  so  long  ?  ' 

*  O  yes,'  he  said  in  unprepared,  provisional  tones, 
for  her  unexpected  presence  caught  him  without  the 
slightest  plan  of  behaviour  in  the  conjuncture.  His 
manner  made  her  think  that  she  had  been  too  chiding 
in  her  speech  ;  and  a  mild  scarlet  wave  passed  over 
her  as  she  resolved  to  soften  it. 

'  I  have  had  another  letter  from  my  father,'  she 
hastened  to  continue.  *  He  thinks  he  may  come 
home  this  evening.  And — in  view  of  his  hopes — it 
will  grieve  him  if  there  is  any  little  difference  between 
us,  Giles.' 

*  There  is  none/  he  said,  sadly  regarding  her  from 

349 


/ 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

the  face  downwards  as  he  pondered  how  to  lay  the 
cruel  truth  bare. 

*  Still — I  fear  you  have  not  quite  forgiven  me 
about  my  being  uncomfortable  at  the  inn.' 

*  I  have,  I'm  sure/ 

*  But  you  speak  in  quite  an  unhappy  way/  she 
returned,  coming  up  quite  close  to  him  with  the  most 
winning  of  the  many  pretty  airs  that  appertained  to 
her.  '  Don't  you  think  you  will  ever  be  happy, 
Giles?' 

He  did  not  reply  for  some  instants.  *  When  the 
sun  shines  flat  on  the  north  front  of  Sherton  Abbey — 
that's  when  my  happiness  will  come  to  me !  '  said  he, 
staring  as  it  were  into  the  earth. 

*  But — then  that  means  that  there  is  something 
more  than  my  offending  you  in  not  liking  the  Sherton 
tavern?  If  it  is  because  I — did  not  like  to  let  you 
kiss  me  in  the  Abbey — well,  you  know,  Giles,  that  it 
was  not  on  account  of  my  cold  feelings,  but  because  I 
did  certainly,  just  then,  think  it  was  rather  premature, 
in  spite  of  my  poor  father.  That  was  the  true  reason 
— the  sole  one.  But  I  do  not  want  to  be  hard — God 
knows  I  do  not  ! '  she  said,  her  voice  fluctuating. 
*  And  perhaps — as  I  am  on  the  verge  of  freedom — I 
am  not  right,  after  all,  in  thinking  there  is  any  harm 
in  your  kissing  me.' 

*  O  Heaven  ! '  groaned  Winterborne  to  himself 
His  head  was  turned  askance  as  he  still  resolutely 
regarded  the  ground.  For  the  last  several  minutes 
he  had  seen  this  great  temptation  approaching  him  in 
regular  siege  ;  and  now  it  had  come.  The  wrong,  the 
social  sin,  of  now  taking  advantage  of  the  offer  of  her 
lips,  had  a  magnitude  in  the  eyes  of  one  whose  life 
had  been  so  primitive,  so  ruled  by  household  laws  as 
Giles's,  which  can  hardly  be  explained. 

*  Did  you  say  anything  ?  '  she  asked  timidly. 
*0  no — only  that ' 

*  You  mean  that  it  must  be  ah-eady  settled,  since 
my  father  is  coming  home  ?  '  she  said  gladly. 

350 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

•  Ah — yes.' 

*  Then  why  don't  you  do  what  you  want  to  ?  *  She 
was  almost  pouting  at  his  hesitation. 

Winterborne,  though  fighting  valiantly  against 
himself  all  this  while — though  he  would  have  protected 
Grace's  good  repute  as  the  apple  of  his  eye,  was  a 
man  ;  and,  as  Desdemona  said,  men  are  not  gods.  In 
face  of  the  agonizing  seductiveness  shown  by  her,  in 
her  unenlightened  school-girl  simplicity  about  the  laws 
and  ordinances,  he  betrayed  a  man's  weakness.  Since 
it  was  so — since  it  had  come  to  this,  that  Grace, 
deeming  herself  free  to  do  it,  was  virtually  asking  him 
to  demonstrate  that  he  loved  her — since  he  could 
demonstrate  it  only  too  truly — since  life  was  short 
and  love  was  strong — he  gave  way  to  the  temptation, 
notwithstanding  that  he  perfectly  well  knew  her  to  be 
wedded  irrevocably  to  Fitzpiers.  Indeed,  he  cared  for 
nothing  past  or  future,  simply  accepting  the  present 
and  what  it  brought,  deciding  once  in  his  life  to  clasp 
in  his  arms  her  he  had  watched  over  and  loved  so 
long. 

She  looked  up  suddenly  from  his  long  embrace 
and  passionate  kiss,  influenced  by  a  sort  of  inspiration. 
'  O,  I  suppose,'  she  stammered,  *  that  I  am  really  free  ? 
— that  this  is  right?  Is  there  really  a  new  law? 
Father  cannot  have  been  too  sanguine  in  saying ' 

He  did  not  answer,  and  a  moment  afterwards 
Grace  burst  into  tears  in  spite  of  herself.  '  O,  why 
does  not  my  father  come  home  and  explain ! '  she 
sobbed  upon  his  breast,  '  and  let  me  know  clearly 
what  I  am !  It  is  too  trying,  this,  to  ask  me  to — and 
then  to  leave  me  so  long  in  so  vague  a  state  that  I  do 
not  know  what  to  do,  and  perhaps  do  wrong ! ' 

Winterborne  felt  like  a  very  Cain,  over  and  above 
his  previous  sorrow.  How  he  had  sinned  against  her 
in  not  telling  her  himself  only  knew.  He  lifted  her 
up  and  turned  aside :  the  feeling  of  his  cruelty  mounted 
higher  and  higher.  How  could  he  have  dreamt  of 
kissing   her?     He    could   hardly   refrain    from  tears. 

351 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

Surely  nothing  more  pitiable  had  ever  been  know 
than  the  condition  of  this  poor  young  thing,  now  as 
heretofore  the  victim  of  her  father's  well-meant  but 
blundering  policy. 

Even  in  the  hour  of  Melbury's  greatest  assurance 
Winterborne  had  harboured  a  suspicion  that  no  law, 
new  or  old,  could  undo  Grace's  marriage  without  her 
appearance  in  public ;  though  he  was  not  sufficiently 
sure  of  what  might  have  been  enacted  to  destroy  by 
his  own  words  her  pleasing  idea  that  a  mere  dash  of 
the  pen,  on  her  father's  testimony,  was  going  to  be 
sufficient.  But  he  had  never  suspected  the  sad  fact 
that  the  position  was  irremediable. 

Poor  Grace,  perhaps  feeling  that  she  had  indulged 
in  too  much  fluster  for  a  mere  embrace,  even  though 
it  had  been  prolonged  an  unconscionable  time,  calmed 
herself  at  finding  how  grave  he  was. 

*  I  am  glad  we  are  friends  again  anyhow,'  she  said, 
smiling  through  her  tears.  *  Giles,  if  you  had  only 
shown  half  the  boldness  before  I  married  that  you 
show  now,  you  would  have  carried  me  off*  for  your 
own,  first  instead  of  second.  If  we  do  marry  I  hope 
you  will  never  think  badly  of  me  for  encouraging  you 
a  little,  but  my  father  is  so  impatient,  you  know,  as  his 
years  and  infirmities  increase,  that  he  will  wish  to  see 
us  a  little  advanced  when  he  comes.  That  is  my 
only  excuse.' 

To  Winterborne  all  this  was  sadder  than  it  was 
sweet.  How  could  she  so  trust  her  father's  conjec- 
tures !  He  did  not  know  how  to  tell  her  the  truth 
and  shame  himself.  And  yet  he  felt  that  it  must 
be  done. 

To  hasten  the  revelation,  however,  was  beyond 
even  him.  The  endearments  that  had  been  begun 
between  them  were  repeated  as  they  walked,  and  the 
afternoon  was  far  advanced  before  he  could  actually 
set  about  opening  her  eyes. 

*  We  may  have  been  wrong,'  he  began  almost  fear- 
fully, *in  supposing  that  it  can   all   be   carried   out 

352 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

whilst  we  stay  here  at  Hintock.  I  am  not  sure  but 
that  people  may  have  to  appear  in  a  public  court  even 
under  the  new  Act ;  and  if  there  should  be  any 
difficulty  and  we  cannot  marry  after  all ' 

Her  cheeks  became  slowly  bloodless.  *  O  Giles,' 
she  said,  grasping  his  arm,  'you  have  heard  some- 
thing !  What — cannot  my  father  conclude  it  there 
and  now  ?  Surely,  he  has  done  it  ?  O  Giles,  Giles, 
don't  deceive  me !  After  letting  you  go  on  like  this 
— what  terrible  position  am  I  in  ?  ' 

He  could  not  tell  her,  try  as  he  would.  The  sense 
of  her  implicit  trust  in  his  honour  disabled  him.  *  I 
cannot  inform  you,'  he  murmured,  his  voice  as  husky 
as  that  of  the  leaves  under  foot.  *  Your  father  will 
soon  be  here.  Then  we  shall  know.  I  will  take  you 
home.' 

Inexpressibly  dear  as  she  was  to  him  he  offered 
her  his  arm  with  the  most  reserved  air  as  he  added 
correctingly,  *  I  will  take  you  at  any  rate  into  the 
drive.* 

Thus  they  walked  on  together,  Grace  vibrating 
between  happiness  and  misgiving.  It  was  only  a  few 
minutes'  walk  to  where  the  drive  ran,  and  they  had    | 

hardly  descended   into  it  when   they   heard   a  voice \ 

behind  them  cry,  *  Take  out  that  arm  ! '  "'"^ 

For  a  moment  they  did  not  heed,  and  the  voice 
repeated  more  loudly  and  hoarsely : 

*  Take  out  that  arm  ! ' 

It  was  Melbury's.  He  had  returned  sooner  than 
they  expected,  and  now  came  up  to  them.  Grace's 
hand  had  been  withdrawn  like  lightning  on  her  hearing 
the  second  command. 

'  I  don't  blame  you,  I  don't  blame  you,'  he  said,  in 
the  weary  cadence  of  one  broken  down  with  scourg- 
ings.  *  But  you  two  must  walk  together  no  more 
— I  have  been  surprised — I  have  been  cruelly  deceived 
• — Giles,  don't  say  anything  to  me,  but  go  away  ! ' 

He  was  evidently  not  aware  that  Winterborne  had         ? 
known    the  truth    before  he  brought   it ;    and   Giles 

353  J 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

would  not  stay  to  discuss  it  with  him  then.  When  the 
younger  man  had  gone  Melbury  took  his  daughter 
indoors  to  the  room  he  used  as  his  office.  There  he 
sat  down  and  bent  over  the  slope  of  the  bureau,  her 
bewildered  gaze  fixed  upon  him. 

When  Melbury  had  recovered  a  little  he  said, 
•  You  are  now  as  ever  Fitzpiers's  wife.  I  was  deluded. 
He  has  not  done  you  enough  harm !  You  are  still 
subject  to  his  beck  and  call' 

'  Then  let  it  be,  and  never  mind,  father,'  she  said 
with  dignified  sorrow.  *  I  can  bear  it.  It  is  your 
trouble  that  grieves  me  most ! '  She  stooped  over 
him  and  put  her  arm  round  his  neck,  which  distressed 
Melbury  still  more. 

'  I  don't  mind  at  all  what  comes  to  me,*  Grace 
continued  ;  *  whose  wife  I  am,  or  whose  I  am  not !  I 
do  love  Giles :  I  cannot  help  that ;  and  I  have  gone 
further  with  him  than  I  should  have  done  if  I  had 
known  exactly  how  things  were.  But  I  do  not  re- 
proach you.' 

*  Then  Giles  did  not  tell  you  ?  '  said  Melbury. 

*  No,'  said  she.  *  He  could  not  have  known  it. 
His  behaviour  to  me  proved  that  he  did  not  know.' 

Her  father  said  nothing  more,  and  Grace  went 
away  to  the  solitude  of  her  chamber. 

Her  heavy  disquietude  had  many  shapes ;  and  for 
a  time  she  put  aside  the  dominant  fact  to  think  of  her 
too  free  conduct  towards  Giles.  His  love-making 
had  been  brief  as  it  was  sweet ;  but  would  he  on 
reflection  contemn  her  for  forwardness.^  How  could 
she  have  been  so  simple  as  to  suppose  she  was  in 
a  position  to  behave  as  she  had  done !  Thus  she 
mentally  blamed  her  ignorance ;  and  yet  in  the  centre 
of  her  heart  she  blessed  it  a  little  for  what  it  had 
momentarily  brought  her. 


XL 

Life  among  the  people  involved  in  these  events 
seemed  to  be  suppressed  and  hide -bound  for  a 
while.  Grace  seldom  showed  herself  outside  the 
house,  never  outside  the  garden ;  for  she  feared 
she  might  encounter  Giles  Winterborne ;  and  that 
she  could  not  bear. 

This  pensive  intramural  existence  of  the  self- 
constituted  nun  appeared  likely  to  continue  for  an 
indefinite  time.  She  had  learnt  that  there  was  one 
possibility  in  which  her  formerly  imagined  position 
might  become  real,  and  only  one ;  that  her  husband's 
absence  should  continue  long  enough  to  amount  to 
positive  desertion.  But  she  never  allowed  her  mind 
to  dwell  much  upon  the  thought ;  still  less  did  she 
deliberately  hope  for  such  a  result.  Her  regard  for 
Winterborne  had  been  rarefied  by  the  shock  which 
followed  its  avowal  into  an  ethereal  emotion  that  had 
little  to  do  with  living  and  doing.  ^,^ 

As  for  Giles  he  was  lying — or  rather  sitting — ill  at 
his  distant  hut.  A  feverish  indisposition  which  had 
been  hanging  about  him  for  some  time,  the  result  of 
a  chill  caught  the  previous  winter,  seemed  to  acquire 
virulence  with  the  prostration  of  his  hopes.  But  not 
a  soul  knew  of  his  languor,  and  he  did  not  think  the 
case  serious  enough  to  send  for  a  medical  man. 
After  a  few  days  he  was  better  again,  and  crept  about 
his  home  in  a  great-coat,  attending  to  his  simple 
wants  as  usual  with  his  own  hands. 

So   matters   stood  when   the  inertion  of  Grace's 

355 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

pool-like   existence   was   disturbed   as   by   a   geyser. 
She  received  a  letter  from  Fitzpiers. 

A  startling  letter  it  was  in  its  import,  though 
couched  in  the  gentlest  language.  In  his  absence 
Grace  had  grown  to  regard  him  with  toleration,  and 
her  relation  to  him  with  equanimity,  till  she  had 
almost  forgotten  how  trying  his  presence  would  be. 
He  wrote  briefly  and  unaffectedly :  he  made  no 
excuses,  but  informed  her  that  he  was  living  quite 
alone,  and  had  been  led  to  think  that  they  ought  to 
be  together,  if  she  would  make  up  her  mind  to  forgive 
him.  He  therefore  purported  to  cross  the  Channel 
to  Budmouth  by  the  steamer  on  a  day  he  named, 
which  she  found  to  be  three  days  after  the  time  of  her 
present  reading. 

He  said  that  he  could  not  come  to  Hintock  for 
obvious  reasons,  which  her  father  would  understand 
even  better  than  herself.  As  the  only  alternative 
she  was  to  be  on  the  quay  to  meet  the  steamer  when 
it  arrived  from  the  opposite  coast,  probably  about 
half-an-hour  before  midnight,  bringing  with  her  any 
luggage  she  might  require ;  join  him  there,  and  pass 
with  him  into  the  twin  vessel,  which  left  immediately 
the  other  entered  the  harbour :  returning  thus  with 
him  to  his  continental  dwelling-place,  which  he  did 
not  name.  He  had  no  intention  of  showing  himself 
on  land  at  all. 

The  troubled  Grace  took  the  letter  to  her  father, 
who  now  continued  for  long  hours  by  the  fireless 
summer  chimney-corner  as  if  he  thought  it  were 
winter,  the  pitcher  of  cider  standing  beside  him, 
mostly  untasted,  and  coated  with  a  film  of  dust. 
After  reading  it  he  looked  up. 

*  You  sha'n't  go,'  said  he. 

*  I  had  felt  I  would  not,'  she  answered.  *  But  I 
did  not  know  what  you  would  say.' 

*  If  he  comes  and  lives  in  England,  not  too  near 
here,  and  in  a  respectable  way,  and  wants  you  to 
come  to  him,  I  am  not  sure  that  I'll  oppose  him  in 

356 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

wishing  It/  muttered  Melbury.  *  I'd  stint  myself  to 
keep  you  both  in  a  genteel  and  seemly  style.  But  go 
abroad  you  never  shall  with  my  consent.' 

There  the  question  rested  that  day.  Grace  was 
unable  to  reply  to  her  husband  in  the  absence  of  an 
address,  and  the  morrow  came,  and  next  day,  and  the 
evening  on  which  he  had  requested  her  to  meet  him. 
Throughout  the  whole  of  it  she  remained  within  the 
four  walls  of  her  room. 

The  sense  of  her  harassment,  carking  doubt  of 
what  might  be  impending,  hung  like  a  cowl  of  black- 
ness over  the  Melbury  household.  They  spoke 
almost  in  whispers,  -and  wondered  what  Fitzpiers 
would  do  next.  It  was  the  hope  of  every  one  that, 
finding  she  did  not  arrive,  he  would  return  again  to 
France  ;  and  as  for  Grace,  she  was  willing  to  write  to 
him  on  the  most  kindly  terms  if  he  would  only  keep 
away. 

The  night  passed,  Grace  lying  tense  and  wide 
awake,  and  her  relatives  in  great  part  likewise. 
When  they  met  the  next  morning  they  were  pale  and 
anxious,  though  neither  speaking  of  the  subject  which 
occupied  all  their  thoughts.  The  day  passed  as 
quietly  as  the  previous  ones,  and  she  began  to  think 
that  in  the  rank  caprice  of  his  moods  he  had 
abandoned  the  idea  of  getting  her  to  join  him  as 
quickly  as  it  was  formed. 

All  on  a  sudden  some  person  who  had  just  come 
from  Casterbridge  entered  the  house  with  the  news 
that  Mr.  Fitzpiers  was  on  his  way  home  to  Hintock. 
He  had  been  seen  hiring  a  carriage  at  the  King's 
Arms  Hotel. 

Her  father  and  Grace  were  both  present  when  the 
intelligence  was  announced. 

*  Now,'  said  Melbury,  *  we  must  make  the  best  of 
what  has  been  a  very  bad  matter.  The  man  is  repent- 
ing :  the  partner  of  his  folly,  I  hear,  is  gone  away  from 
him  to  Switzerland,  so  that  chapter  of  his  life  is  prob- 
ably over.     If  he  chooses  to  make  a  home  for  'ee  I 

357 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

think  you  should  not  say  him  nay,  Grace.  Certainly  he 
cannot  very  well  live  at  Hintock  without  a  blow  to 
his  pride;  but  if  he  can  bear  that,  and  likes  Hintock 
best,  why,  there's  the  empty  wing  of  the  house  as  it 
was  before.* 

*  O  father  ! '  said  Grace,  turning  white  with  dismay. 

*  Why  not  ? '  said  he,  a  little  of  his  former  dogged- 
ness  returning.  He  was,  in  truth,  disposed  to  some- 
what more  leniency  towards  her  husband  just  now 
than  he  had  shown  formerly,  from  a  conviction  that 
he  had  treated  him  over  roughly  in  his  anger. 

*  Surely  it  is  the  most  respectable  thing  to  do  ? '  he 
continued.  *  I  don't  like  this  state  that  you  are  in 
— neither  married  nor  single.  It  hurts  me,  and  it 
hurts  you,  and  it  will  always  be  remembered  against 
us  in  Hintock.  There  has  never  been  any  scandal 
like  it  in  the  Melbury  family  before.' 

*  He  will  be  here  in  less  than  an  hour,'  murmured 
Grace, 

The  twilight  of  the  room  prevented  her  father 
seeing  the  despondent  misery  of  her  face.  The  one 
intolerable  condition,  the  condition  she  had  deprecated 
above  all  others,  was  that  of  Fitzpiers's  reinstatement 
there.  *  O,  I  won't,  I  won't  see  him ! '  she  said, 
sinking  down.     She  was  almost  hysterical. 

*Try  if  you  cannot,'  he  returned  moodily. 

*  O  yes,  I  will,  I  will ! '  she  went  on  inconsequently: 
*  I'll  try ; '  and  jumping  up  suddenly  she  left  the  room. 

In  the  darkness  of  the  apartment  to  which  she 
flew  nothing  could  have  been  seen  during  the  next 
half-hour ;  but  from  a  corner  a  quick  breathing  was 
^  audible  from  this  impressionable  creature,  who  com- 
bined modern  nerves  with  primitive  feelings,  and 
was  doomed  by  such  co-existence  to  be  numbered 
among  the  distressed,  and  to  take  her  scourgings  to 
their  exquisite  extremity. 

The  window  was  open.  On  this  quiet,  late  summer 
evening  whatever  sound  arose  in  so  secluded  a  dis- 
trict— the  chirp  of  a  bird,  a  call   from  a  voice,   the 

358 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

turning  of  a  wheel — extended  over  bush  and  tree 
to  unwonted  distances.  Very  few  sounds  did  arise. 
But  as  Grace  invisibly  breathed  in  the  brown  glooms 
of  the  chamber  the  small  remote  noise  of  light  wheels 
came  to  her,  accompanied  by  the  trot  of  a  horse  on  the 
turnpike  road.  There  seemed  to  be  a  sudden  hitch 
or  pause  in  the  progress  of  the  vehicle,  which  was 
what  first  drew  her  attention  to  it.  She  knew  the 
point  whence  the  sound  proceeded — the  upper  ground 
down  which  travellers  came  on  their  way  hitherward 
from  the  south — the  place  at  which  she  had  emerged 
from  the  wood  with  Mrs.  Charmond.  Grace  slid 
along  the  floor  and  bent  her  head  over  the  window- 
sill,  listening  with  open  lips.  The  carriage  had 
stopped,  and  she  heard  a  man  use  exclamatory 
words.  Then  another  said,  *  What  the  devil  is  the 
matter  with  the  horse  ?  *  She  recognized  the  voice 
as  her  husband's. 

The  accident,  such  as  it  had  been,  was  soon 
remedied,  and  the  carriage  could  be  heard  resuming 
its  descent,  soon  to  turn  into  the  lane  leading  out  of 
the  highway  and  then  into  the  *  drong  '  which  led  to 
the  house  where  she  was. 

A  spasm  passed  through  Grace.  A  Daphnean 
instinct,  exceptionally  strong  in  her  as  a  girl,  had 
been  revived  by  her  widowed  seclusion  ;  and  it  was 
not  lessened  by  her  affronted  sentiments  towards  the 
comer,  and  her  regard  for  another  man.  She  opened 
some  little  ivory  tablets  that  lay  on  the  dressing- 
table,  scribbled  in  pencil  on  one  of  them,  *  I  am  gone 
to  visit  one  of  my  school-friends,'  gathered  a  few 
toilet  necessaries  into  a  hand-bag,  and,  not  three 
minutes  after  that  voice  had  been  heard,  her  slim 
form,  hastily  wrapped  up  from  observation,  might 
have  been  seen  passing  out  of  the  back  door  of 
Melbury's  house.  Thence  she  skimmed  up  the 
garden-path,  through  the  gap  in  the  hedge,  and 
into  the  mossy  cart-track  under  the  trees  which  led 
into  the  depths  of  the  woods. 

359 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

The  leaves  overhead  were  now  in  their  latter 
green — so  opaque,  that  it  was  darker  at  some  of 
the  densest  spots  than  in  winter  time,  scarce  a 
crevice  existing  by  which  a  ray  could  get  down  to 
the  ground.  But  in  open  places  she  could  see  well 
enough.  Summer  was  ending :  in  the  daytime  sing- 
ing insects  hung  in  every  sunbeam  :  vegetation  was 
heavy  nightly  with  globes  of  dew ;  and  after  showers 
creeping  damps  and  twilight  chills  came  up  from 
the  hollows. 

The  plantations  were  always  weird  at  this  hour  of 
eve — more  spectral  far  than  in  the  leafless  season, 
when  there  were  fewer  masses  and  more  minute 
lineality.  The  smooth  surfaces  of  glossy  plants 
came  out  like  weak,  lldless  eyes  :  there  were  strange 
faces  and  figures  from  expiring  lights  that  had  some- 
how wandered  into  the  canopied  obscurity ;  while  now 
and  then  low  peeps  of  the  sky  between  the  trunks 
were  like  sheeted  shapes,  and  on  the  tips  of  boughs 
sat  faint  cloven  tongues. 

But  Grace's  fear  just  now  was  not  imaginative  or 
spiritual ;  and  she  heeded  these  impressions  but  little. 
She  went  on  as  silently  as  she  could,  avoiding  the 
hollows  wherein  leaves  had  accumulated,  and  stepping 
upon  soundless  moss  and  grass-tufts.  She  paused 
breathlessly  once  or  twice,  and  fancied  that  she  could 
hear,  above  the  sound  of  her  strumming  pulse,  the 
vehicle  containing  FItzpIers  turning  in  at  the  gate  of 
her  father's  premises.     She  hastened  on  again. 

The  Hintock  woods  owned  by  Mrs.  Charmond 
were  presently  left  behind,  and  those  into  which  she 
next  plunged  were  divided  from  the  latter  by  a  high- 
way. It  was  with  some  caution  that  Grace  now 
walked,  though  she  was  quite  free  from  any  of  the 
commonplace  timidities  of  her  ordinary  pilgrimages  to 
such  spots.  She  feared  no  lurking  harms,  but  that 
her  effort  would  be  all  in  vain,  and  her  return  to  the 
house  rendered  imperative. 

She   had    walked   three   or   four   miles   westward 

360 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

when  that  prescriptive  comfort  and  relief  to  wanderers 
in  woods — a  distant  light — broke  at  last  upon  her 
searching  eyes.  It  was  so  very  small  as  to  be  almost 
sinister  to  a  stranger,  but  to  her  it  was  what  she 
sought.  She  pushed  forward,  and  the  dim  outline  of  a 
dwelling  was  disclosed.     It  was  the  place  she  sought. 

The  house  was  a  square  cot  of  one  story  only, 
sloping  up  on  all  sides  to  a  chimney  in  the  midst. 
It  had  formerly  been  the  home  of  a  charcoal-burner, 
in  times  when  that  fuel  was  still  used  in  the  county 
houses.  Its  only  appurtenance  was  a  paled  inclosure, 
there  being  no  garden,  the  shade  of  the  trees  pre- 
venting the  growth  of  vegetables.  She  advanced 
to  the  window  whence  the  rays  of  light  proceeded, 
and  the  shutters  being  as  yet  unclosed  she  could 
survey  the  whole  interior  through  the  panes. 

The  room  within  was  kit(!:hen,  parlour,  and  bed- 
chamber all  in  one :  the  natural  sandstone  floor  was 
worn  into  hills  and  dales  by  long  treading,  so  that 
none  of  the  furniture  stood  level,  and  the  table  slanted 
like  a  desk.  A  fire  burnt  on  the  hearth,  in  front  of 
which  revolved  the  skinned  carcase  of  a  very  small 
rabbit,  suspended  by  a  string  from  a  nail.  Leaning 
with  one  arm  on  the  mantel-shelf  stood  Winterborne, 
his  eyes  on  the  roasting  animal,  his  face  so  rapt  that 
speculation  could  build  nothing  on  it  concerning  his 
thoughts,  more  than  that  they  were  not  with  the 
scene  before  him.  She  thought  his  features  had 
changed  a  little  since  she  saw  them  last.  The  fire- 
light did  not  enable  her  to  perceive  that  they  were 
positively  haggard. 

Grace's  throat  emitted  a  gasp  of  relief  at  finding 
the  result  so  nearly  as  she  had  hoped.  She  went  to 
the  door  and  tapped  lightly. 

He  seemed  to  be  accustomed  to  the  noises  of 
woodpeckers,  squirrels  and  such  small  creatures,  for 
he  took  no  notice  of  her  tiny  signal,  and  she  knocked 
again.     This  time  he  came  and  opened  the  door. 

When  the  light  of  the  room  fell  upon  her  face  he 

361 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

started ;  and,  hardly  knowing  what  he  did,  crossed  the 
threshold  to  her,  placing  his  hands  upon  her  two  arms, 
while  surprise,  joy,  alarm,  sadness,  chased  through  him 
by  turns.  With  Grace  it  was  the  same ;  even  in  this 
stress  there  was  the  fond  fact  that  they  had  met  again. 
Thus  they  stood, 

*  Long  tears  upon  their  faces,  waxen  white 
With  extreme  sad  delight,' 

till   he   broke   the   silence   by   saying    in   a  whisper, 
*  Come  in.' 

*  No,  no,  Giles ! '  she  answered  hurriedly,  stepping 
yet  further  back  from  the  door.  *  I  am  passing  by — 
and  I  have  called  on  you,  I  won't  enter.  Will  you 
help  me.**  I  am  afraid.  I  want  to  get  by  a  round- 
about way  to  I  veil,  and  so  to  Exonbury.  I  have  a 
school-fellow  there — but  I  cannot  get  to  I  veil  alone. 
O,  if  you  will  only  accompany  me  a  little  way  !  Don't 
condemn  me,  Giles,  and  be  offended  1  I  was  obliged 
to  come  to  you,  because  I  have  no  other  help  here. 
Three  months  ago  you  were  my  lover ;  now  you  are 
only  my  friend.  The  law  has  stepped  in  and  forbidden 
what  we  thought  of.  It  must  not  be.  But  we  can 
act  honestly,  and  yet  you  can  be  my  friend  for  one 
little  hour !     I  have  no  other * 

She  could  get  no  further.  Covering  her  eyes  with 
one  hand,  by  an  effort  of  repression  she  wept  silent 
tears  without  a  sigh  or  sob.  Winterborne  took  her 
other  hand  in  both  his. 

*  What  has  happened  ? '  he  said. 

*  He  has  come.* 

There  was  a  stillness  as  of  death  till  Winterborne 
asked,  *  You  mean  this,  Grace — that  I  am  to  help  you 
get  away  ? ' 

*  Yes,'  said  she.  *  Appearance  Is  no  matter,  when 
the  reality  is  right.  I  have  said  to  myself,  I  can  trust 
you.' 

Giles  knew  from  this  that  she  did  not  suspect  his 
treachery — if  it  could  be  called  such — earlier  in  the 

362 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

summer,  when  they  met  for  the  last  time  as  lovers ; 
and  in  the  intensity  of  his  contrition  for  that  tender 
wrong  he  determined  to  deserve  her  faith  now  at  least, 
and  so  wipe  out  that  reproach  from  his  conscience. 
*  I'll  come  at  once,'  he  said.  *  I'll  light  a  lantern.' 
He  unhooked  a  dark  lantern  from  a  nail  under  the 
eaves,  and  she  did  not  notice  how  his  hand  shook  with 
the  slight  strain,  or  dream  that  in  making  this  offer  he 
was  taxing  a  convalescecx!.**  'vhich  could  ill  afford  such 
self-sacrifice.     The  lantern  was  lit  and  they  started. 


The  first  hundred  yards  of  their  course  lay  under 
motionless  trees,  whose  upper  foliage  began  to  hiss 
with  falling  drops  of  rain.  By  the  time  that  they 
emerged  upon  a  glade  it  rained  heavily. 

*  This  is  awkward  !  *  said  Grace,  with  a  forced  little 
laugh  to  hide  her  concern. 

Winterborne  stopped.  *  Gracie,*  he  said,  preserv- 
ing a  strictly  business  manner  which  belied  him ;  *  you 
cannot  go  to  I  veil  to-night.' 

*  But  I  must.' 

'  Why  ?  It  is  seven  or  eight  miles  from  here.  It 
is  almost  an  impossibility  in  this  rain.' 

*  True — w/ty,*  she  replied  mournfully  at  the  end  of 
a  silence.     *  What  is  reputation  to  me  ?  ' 

'  Now  hearken,'  said  Giles.  *  You  won't — go  back 
to  your ' 

*  No,  no,  no  !    Don't  make  me  !  *  she  cried  piteously. 

*  Then  let  us  turn.'  They  slowly  retraced  their 
steps,  and  again  stood  before  his  door.  *  Now  this 
house  from  this  moment  is  yours,  and  not  mine,'  he 
said  deliberately.  *  I  have  a  place  near  by  where  I 
can  stay  very  well.' 

Her  face  had  dropped.  *  O,'  she  murmured  as  she 
saw  the  dilemma.     '  What  have  I  done  ! ' 

There  was  a  smell  of  something  burning  within, 
and  he  looked  through  the  window.  The  young 
rabbit  that  he  had  been  cooking  to  coax  a  weak 
appetite  was  beginning  to  char.  '  Please  go  in  and 
attend  to  it,'  he  said.     *  Do  what  you  like.     Now  I 

364 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

leave.  You  will  find  everything  about  the  hut  that  is 
necessary.' 

'But,  Giles — your  supper!*  she  exclaimed.  *An 
outhouse  would  do  for  me — anything — till  to-morrow 
at  daybreak ! ' 

He  signified  a  negative.  *  I  tell  you  to  go  in — 
you  may  catch  agues  out  here  in  your  weakly  state. 
You  can  give  me  my  supper  through  the  window,  if 
you  feel  well  enough.     I'll  wait  awhile.' 

He  gently  urged  her  to  pass  the  doorway,  and  was 
relieved  when  he  saw  her  within  sitting  down  on  his 
bed.  Without  so  much  as  crossing  the  threshold  him- 
self he  closed  the  door  upon  her,  and  turned  the  key 
in  the  lock.  Tapping  at  the  window  he  signified  that 
she  should  open  the  casement,  and  when  she  had  done 
this  he  handed  in  the  key  to  her. 

*  You  are  locked  in,'  he  said ;  *  and  your  own 
mistress.* 

Even  in  her  trouble  she  could  not  refrain  from  a 
faint  smile  at  his  scrupulousness,  as  she  took  the 
door-key. 

'  Do  you  feel  better  ?  '  he  went  on.  *  If  so,  and  you 
wish  to  give  me  some  of  your  supper,  please  do.  If 
not  it  is  of  no  importance.  I  can  get  some  else- 
where.' 

The  grateful  sense  of  his  kindness  stirred  her  to 
action,  though  she  only  knew  half  what  that  kindness 
really  was.  At  the  end  of  some  ten  minutes  she  again 
came  to  the  window,  pushed  it  open,  and  said  in  a 
whisper  *  Giles  ! '  He  at  once  emerged  from  the 
shade,  and  saw  that  she  was  preparing  to  hand  him 
his  share  of  the  meal  upon  a  plate. 

*  I  don't  like  to  treat  you  so  hardly,'  she  murmured 
with  deep  regret  in  her  words  as  she  heard  the  rain 
pattering  on  the  leaves.  *  But — I  suppose  it  is  best 
to  arrange  like  this  ?  ' 

'  O  yes,*  he  said  quickly. 

*  I  feel  that  I  could  never  have  reached  Ivell.* 

*  It  was  impossible.' 

365 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

*  Are  you  sure  you  have  a  snug  place  out  there  ?  * 
(With  renewed  misgiving.) 

*  Quite.  Have  you  found  everything  you  want? 
I  am  afraid  it  is  rather  rough  accommodation. 

*  Can  I  notice  defects  ?  I  have  long  passed  that 
stage,  and  you  know  it,  Giles,  or  you  ought  to.' 

His  eyes  contemplated  her  face  as  its  responsive- 
ness modulated  through  a  crowd  of  expressions  that 
showed  only  too  clearly  to  what  a  pitch  she  was 
strung.  If  ever  Winterborne's  heart  chafed  his  bosom 
it  was  at  this  sight  of  a  perfectly  defenceless  creature 
conditioned  by  such  harsh  circumstances.  He  forgot 
his  own  agony  in  the  satisfaction  of  having  at  least 
found  her  a  shelter.  He  took  his  plate  and  cup  from 
her  hands,  saying,  *  Now  I'll  push  the  shutter  to,  and 
you  will  find  an  iron  pin  on  the  inside,  which  you 
must  fix  into  the  bolt.  Do  not  stir  in  the  morning 
till  I  come  and  call  you.* 

She  expressed  an  alarmed  hope  that  he  would  not 
go  very  far  away. 

*  O  no  —  I  shall  be  quite  within  hail/  said 
Winterborne. 

She  bolted  the  window  as  directed,^  and  he 
retreated.  His  'snug  place'  without  the  hut  proved 
to  be  a  wretched  little  shelter  of  the  roughest  kind, 
formed  of  four  hurdles  thatched  with  brake -fern. 
Underneath  were  dry  sacks,  hay,  and  other  litter  of 
the  sort,  upon  which  he  sat  down ;  and  there  in  the 
dark  tried  to  eat  his  meal.  But  his  appetite  was  quite 
gone.  He  pushed  the  plate  aside,  and  shook  up  the 
hay  and  sacks,  so  as  to  form  a  rude  couch,  on  which 
he  flung  himself  down  to  sleep,  for  it  was  getting 
late. 

But  sleep  he  could  not  for  many  reasons,  of  which 
not  the  least  was  thought  of  his  charge.  He  sat 
up,  and  looked  towards  the  cot  through  the  damp 
obscurity.  With  all  its  external  features  the  same  as 
usual,  he  could  scarcely  believe  that  it  contained  the 
dear  friend — he  would  not  use  a  warmer  name — who 

366 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

had  come  to  him  so  unexpectedly  and,  he  could  not 
help  admitting,  so  rashly. 

He  had  not  ventured  to  ask  her  any  particulars; 
but  the  position  was  pretty  clear  without  them. 
Though  social  law  had  negatived  for  ever  their  open- 
ing paradise  of  the  previous  June,  it  was  not  without 
stoical  pride  that  he  accepted  the  present  trying  con- 
juncture. There  was  one  man  on  earth  in  whom 
she  believed  absolutely,  and  he  was  that  man.  That 
this  crisis  could  end  in  nothing  but  sorrow  was  a 
view  for  a  moment  effaced  by  his  triumphant  thought 
of  her  trust  in  him  ;  and  the  purity  of  the  affection 
with  which  he  responded  to  that  trust  rendered  him 
more  than  proof  against  any  frailty  that  besieged  him 
in  relation  to  her. 

The  rain,  which  had  never  ceased,  now  drew  his 
attention  by  beginning  to  drop  through  the  meagre 
screen  that  covered  him.  He  rose  to  attempt  some 
remedy  for  this  discomfort,  but  the  trembling  of  his 
knees  and  the  throbbing  of  his  pulse  told  him  that 
in  his  weakness  he  was  unable  to  fence  against  the 
storm,  and  he  lay  down  to  bear  it  as  best  he  might. 
He  was  angry  with  himself  for  his  feebleness — he  who 
had  been  so  strong.  It  was  imperative  that  she 
should  know  nothing  of  his  present  state,  and  to  do 
that  she  must  not  see  his  face  by  daylight,  for  its 
thinness  would  inevitably  betray  him. 

The  next  morning,  accordingly,  when  it  was 
hardly  light,  he  rose  and  dragged  his  stiff  limbs  about 
the  precincts,  preparing  for  her  everything  she  could 
require  for  getting  breakfast  within.  On  the  bench 
outside  the  window-sill  he  placed  water,  wood,  and 
other  necessaries,  writing  with  a  piece  of  chalk  beside 
them,  *  It  is  best  that  I  should  not  see  you.  Put  my 
breakfast  on  the  bench.' 

At  seven  o'clock  he  tapped  at  her  window  as  he 
had  promised,  retreating  at  once  that  she  might  not 
catch  sight  of  him.  But  from  his  shelter  under  the 
boughs  he  could  see  her  very  well,  when,  in  response 

367 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

to  his  signal,  she  opened  the  window  and  the  h'ght 
fell  upon  her  face.  The  languid  largeness  of  her  eyes 
showed  that  her  sleep  had  been  little  more  than  his 
own,  and  the  pinkness  of  their  lids  that  her  waking 
hours  had  not  been  free  from  tears. 

She  read  the  writing,  seemed,  he  thought,  dis- 
appointed, but  took  up  the  materials  he  had  provided, 
evidently  thinking  him  some  way  off.  Giles  waited 
on,  assured  that  a  girl  who,  in  spite  of  her  culture, 
knew  what  country  life  was,  would  find  no  difficulty 
in  the  simple  preparation  of  their  food. 

Within  the  cot  it  was  all  very  much  as  he  con- 
jectured, though  Grace  had  slept  much  longer  than 
he.  After  the  loneliness  of  the  night  she  would  have 
been  glad  to  see  him  ;  but  appreciating  his  feeling 
when  she  read  the  request  she  made  no  attempt  to 
recall  him.  She  found  abundance  of  provisions  laid 
in,  his  plan  being  to  replenish  his  buttery  weekly, 
and  this  being  the  day  after  the  victualling-van  had 
called  from  Ivell.  When  the  meal  was  ready  she 
put  what  he  required  outside,  as  she  had  done  with 
the  supper ;  and,  notwithstanding  her  longing  to  see 
him,  withdrew  from  the  window  promptly,  and  left 
him  to  himself 

It  had  been  a  leaden  dawn,  and  the  rain  now 
steadily  renewed  its  fall.  As  she  heard  no  more  of 
Winterborne  she  concluded  that  he  had  gone  away  to 
his  daily  work,  and  forgotten  that  he  had  promised 
to  accompany  her  to  Ivell ;  an  erroneous  conclusion, 
for  he  remained  all  day,  by  force  of  his  condition, 
within  fifty  yards  of  where  she  was. 

The  morning  wore  on  ;  and  in  her  doubt  when  to 
start,  and  how  to  travel,  she  lingered  yet  ;  keeping  the 
door  carefully  bolted  lest  an  intruder  should  discover 
her.  Locked  in  this  place  she  was  comparatively  safe, 
at  any  rate,  and  doubted  if  she  would  be  safe 
elsewhere. 

The  humid  gloom  of  an  ordinary  wet  day  was 
doubled    by   the    shade    and    drip    of    the    leafage. 

368 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

Autumn,  this  year,  was  coming  in  with  rains.  Gazing 
in  her  enforced  idleness  from  the  one  window  of  the 
single  room,  she  could  see  various  small  members  of 
the  animal  community  that  lived  unmolested  there — 
creatures  of  hair,  fluff,  and  scale  ;  the  toothed  kind  and 
the  billed  kind  ;  underground  creatures  jointed  and 
ringed — circumambulating  the  hut  under  the  impres- 
sion that,  Giles  having  gone  away,  nobody  was  there ; 
and  eyeing  it  inquisitively  with  a  view  to  winter 
quarters.  Watching  these  neighbours  who  knew 
neither  law  nor  sin  distracted  her  a  little  from  her 
trouble  ;  and  she  managed  to  while  away  some 
portion  of  the  afternoon  by  putting  Giles's  home  in 
order,  and  making  little  improvements  which  she 
deemed  that  he  would  value  when  she  was  gone. 

Once  or  twice  she  fancied  that  she  heard  a  faint 
noise  amid  the  trees  resembling  a  cough  ;  but  as  it 
never  came  any  nearer  she  concluded  that  it  was  a 
squirrel  or  a  bird. 

At  last  the  daylight  lessened  and  she  made  up  a 
larger  fire,  for  the  evenings  were  chilly.  As  soon  as 
it  was  too  dark — which  was  comparatively  early — to 
discern  the  human  countenance  in  this  place  of 
shadows,  there  came  to  the  window,  to  her  great 
delight,  a  tapping  which  she  knew  from  its  method  to 
be  Giles's. 

She  opened  the  casement  instantly,  and  put  out 
her  hand  to  him,  though  she  could  only  just  perceive 
his  outline.  He  clasped  her  fingers,  and  she  noticed 
the  heat  of  his  palm,  and  its  shakiness. 

*  He  has  been  walking  fast  in  order  to  get  here 
quickly,'  she  thought.  How  could  she  know  that  he 
had  just  crawled  out  from  the  straw  of  the  shelter  hard 
by  :  and  that  the  heat  of  his  hand  was  feverishness  ? 

*  My  dear,  good  Giles ! '  she  burst  out  impulsively. 

*  Anybody  would  have  done  it  for  you,'  replied 
Winterborne,  with  as  much  matter-of-fact  as  he  could 
summon. 

*  About  my  getting  to  I  veil  and  Exonbury  ?* 

369 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

*  I  have  been  thinking,'  responded  Giles,  with 
tender  deference,  *  that  you  had  better  stay  where  you 
are  for  the  present,  if  you  wish  not  to  be  caught.  I 
need  not  tell  you  that  the  place  is  yours  as  long  as 
you  like  ;  and  perhaps  in  a  day  or  two,  finding  you 
absent,  he  will  go  away.  At  any  rate  in  two  or  three 
days  I  could  do  anything  to  assist — such  as  make 
inquiries,  or  go  a  great  way  towards  I  veil  with  you  ; 
for  the  cider  season  will  soon  be  coming  on,  and  I 
want  to  run  down  that  way  to  see  how  the  crops  are. 
But  for  a  day  or  two  I  am  busy  here.'  He  was  hoping 
that  by  the  time  mentioned  he  would  be  strong 
enough  to  engage  himself  actively  on  her  behalf.  *  I 
hope  you  do  not  feel  over-much  melancholy  in  being 
a  prisoner  ? ' 

She  declared  that  she  did  not  mind  it ;  but  she 
sighed. 

From  long  acquaintance  they  could  read  each 
other's  heart  -  symptoms  like  books  of  large  type. 
*  I  fear  you  are  sorry  you  came,'  said  Giles,  *  and  that 
you  think  I  should  have  advised  you  more  firmly  than 
I  did  not  to  stay.' 

'  O  no !  dear,  dear  friend,'  answered  Grace  with  a 
heaving  bosom.  *  Don't  think  that  that  is  what  I 
regret.  What  I  regret  is  my  enforced  treatment  of 
you — dislodging  you,  excluding  you  from  your  own 
house.  Why  should  I  not  speak  out?  You  know 
what  I  feel  for  you — what  I  have  felt  for  no  other 
living  man,  what  I  shall  never  feel  for  a  man  again. 
But  as  I  have  vowed  myself  to  somebody  else  than 
you,  and  cannot  be  released,  I  must  behave  as  I  do 
behave,  and  keep  that  vow.  I  am  not  bound  to  him 
by  any  divine  law,  after  what  he  has  done ;  but  I  have 
promised,  and  I  will  pay.' 

The  rest  of  the  evening  was  passed  In  his  handing 
her  such  things  as  she  would  require  the  next  day, 
and  casual  remarks  thereupon,  an  occupation  which 
diverted  her  mind  to  some  degree  from  pathetic  views 
of  her  attitude  towards  him  and  of  her  life  in  general. 

370 


^    THE  WOODLANDERS 

The  only  infringement — if  infringement  it  could  be 
called  —  of  his  predetermined  bearing  towards  her 
was  an  involuntary  pressing  of  her  hand  to  his  lips 
when  she  put  it  through  the  casement  to  bid  him 
good-night.  He  knew  she  was  weeping,  though  he 
could  not  see  her  tears. 

She  again  entreated  his  forgiveness  for  so  selfishly 
appropriating  the  cottage.  But  it  would  only  be  for  a 
day  or  two  more,  she  thought,  since  go  she  must. 

He  yearningly  replied :  *  I — I  don't  like  you  to  go 
away  ! ' 

*  O  Giles,'  said  she,  *  I  know — I  know  !  But — I 
am  a  woman,  and  you  are  a  man.  I  cannot  speak 
more  plainly.  I  yearn  to  let  you  in,  but — you  know 
what  is  in  my  mind,  because  you  know  me  so  well.' 

*  Yes,  Gracie,  yes.  I  do  not  at  all  mean  that  the 
question  between  us  has  not  been  settled  by  your 
marriage  turning  out  hopelessly  unalterable.  I 
merely  meant — well,  a  feeling — no  more.' 

*  In  a  week,  at  the  outside,  I  should  be  discovered 
if  I  stayed  here  ;  and  I  think  that  by  law  he  could 
compel  me  to  return  to  him.' 

*  Yes  ;  perhaps  you  are  right.  Go  when  you  wish, 
dear  Grace.' 

His  last  words  that  evening  were  a  hopeful 
remark  that  all  might  be  well  with  her  yet :  that  Mr. 
Fitzpiers  would  not  intrude  upon  her  life,  if  he  found 
that  his  presence  cost  her  so  much  pain.  Then  the 
window  was  closed,  the  shutters  folded,  and  the  rustle 
of  his  footsteps  died  away. 

No  sooner  had  she  retired  to  rest  that  night  than 
the  wind  began  to  rise,  and  after  a  few  prefatory 
blasts  to  be  accompanied  by  rain.  The  wind  grew 
more  violent,  and  as  the  storm  went  on  it  was  difficult 
to  believe  that  no  opaque  body,  but  only  an  invisible 
colourless  thing,  was  trampling  and  climbing  over  the 
roof,  making  branches  creak,  springing  out  of  the 
trees  upon  the  chimney,  popping  its  head  into  the 
flue,  and  shrieking  and  blaspheming  at  every  corner 

371 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

of  the  walls.  As  in  the  grisly  story,  the  assailant  was 
a  spectre  which  could  be  felt  but  not  seen.  She  had 
never  before  been  so  struck  with  the  devilry  of  a 
gusty  night  in  a  wood,  because  she  had  never  been  so 
entirely  alone  in  spirit  as  she  was  now.  She  seemed 
almost  to  be  apart  from  herself — a  vacuous  duplicate 
only.  The  recent  self  of  physical  animation  and  clear 
intentions  was  not  there. 

Sometimes  a  bough  from  an  adjoining  tree  was 
swayed  so  low  as  to  smite  the  roof  in  the  manner  of  a 
gigantic  hand  smiting  the  mouth  of  an  adversary,  to 
be  followed  by  a  trickle  of  rain,  as  blood  from  the 
wound.  To  all  this  weather  Giles  must  be  more  or 
less  exposed  ;  how  much,  she  did  not  know. 

At  last  Grace  could  hardly  endure  the  idea  of  such 
a  hardship  in  relation  to  him.  Whatever  he  was 
suffering  it  was  she  who  had  caused  it ;  he  had 
vacated  his  single-roomed  hut  on  account  of  her. 
She  was  not  worth  such  self-sacrifice  ;  she  should  not 
have  accepted  it  of  him.  And  then,  as  her  anxiety 
increased  with  increasing  thought,  there  returned 
upon  her  mind  some  incidents  of  her  late  intercourse 
with  him,  which  she  had  heeded  but  little  at  the 
time.  The  look  of  his  face — what  had  there  been 
about  his  face  which  seemed  different  from  its  appear- 
ance of  yore.f*  Was  it  not  thinner,  less  rich  in  hue, 
less  like  that  of  ripe  Autumn's  brother  to  whom  she 
had  formerly  compared  him  ?  And  his  voice  ;  she 
had  distinctly  noticed  a  change  in  tone.  And  his 
gait  ;  surely  it  had  been  feebler,  stiffer,  more  like  the 
gait  of  a  weary  man.  That  slight  occasional  noise 
she  had  heard  in  the  day,  and  attributed  to  squirrels  ; 
it  might  have  been  his  cough  after  all. 

Thus  conviction  took  root  in  her  perturbed  mind 
that  Winterborne  was  unwell,  or  had  been  so,  and 
that  he  had  carefully  concealed  his  condition  from  her 
that  she  might  have  no  scruples  about  accepting  a 
hospitality  which  by  the  nature  of  the  case  expelled 
her  entertainer. 

372 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

*  My  own,  own,  true  love — my  dear  kind  friend  ! ' 
she  cried  to  herself.  *  O,  it  shall  not  be — it  shall 
not  be ! ' 

She  hastily  got  out  of  bed,  obtained  a  light,  and 
partially  dressed  herself;  and  taking  the  key  went  at 
once  to  the  door,  which  was  close  at  hand,  the  cot 
possessing  only  one  floor.  Before  turning  the  key  in 
the  lock  she  paused,  her  fingers  still  clutching  it  ;  and 
pressing  her  other  hand  to  her  forehead,  she  fell  into 
agitating  thought. 

A  tattoo  on  the  window,  caused  by  the  tree- 
droppings  blowing  against  it,  brought  her  indecision 
to  a  close.  She  turned  the  key,  and  opened  the 
door. 

The  darkness  was  intense,  seeming  to  touch  her 
pupils  like  a  substance.  She  only  now  became  aware 
how  heavy  the  rainfall  had  been  and  was  :  the 
dripping  of  the  eaves  splashed  like  a  fountain.  She 
stood  listening  with  parted  lips,  and  holding  the  door 
in  one  hand,  till  her  eyes  growing  accustomed  to  the 
obscurity  she  discerned  the  wild  brandishing  of  their 
arms  by  the  adjoining  trees.  At  last  she  cried  loudly 
with  an  effort :  *  Giles  !  you  must  come  in  ! ' 

There  was  no  answer  to  her  cry,  and  overpowered 
by  her  own  temerity  Grace  retreated  quickly,  shut  the 
door,  and  stood  looking  on  the  floor  with  flushed 
cheeks.  Perhaps  he  was  very  well  after  all.  But 
this  mood  was  not  for  long.  She  again  lifted  the 
latch,  and  with  far  more  determination  than  at  first. 

'  Giles,  Giles ! '  she  cried,  with  the  full  strength  of 
her  voice,  and  without  any  of  the  shamefacedness  that 
had  characterized  her  first  cry.  *  O,  come  in — come 
in  !  Where  are  you  ?  I  have  been  wicked — I  have 
thought  too  much  of  myself!  Do  you  hear.^^  I  don't 
want  to  keep  you  out  any  longer.  1  cannot  bear  that 
you  should  suffer  so.     I  want  you  here  !     Gi-i-iles  ! ' 

A  reply  ?  It  was  a  reply  !  Through  the  darkness 
and  wind  a  feeble  voice  reached  her,  floating  upon  the 
weather  as  though  a  part  of  it. 

373 


^THE  WOODLANDERS 

*  Here  I  am — all  right !     Don't  trouble  about  me.' 
'  Don't  you  want  to  come  in  ?     Are  you  not  wet  ? 

Come  to  me,  dearest  /     /  dont  mind  what  they  say  or 
what  they  think  of  us  any  more' 

*  I  am  all  right,'  he  repeated.  *  It  is  not  necessary 
for  me  to  come.     Good  night  1  good  night ! ' 

Grace  sighed,  turned,  and  shut  the  door  slowly. 
Could  she  have  shocked  him  by  her  impulsive  words? 
Perhaps,  after  all,  she  had  perceived  a  change  in  him 
because  she  had  not  seen  him  for  so  long.  Time 
sometimes  did  his  ageing  work  in  jerks,  as  she  knew. 
Well,  she  had  done  all  she  could.  He  would  not 
come  in.     She  retired  to  rest  again. 


XLII 

The  next  morning  Grace  was  at  the  window  early. 
She  felt  determined  to  see  him  somehow  that  day, 
and  prepared  his  breakfast  eagerly.  Eight  o'clock 
struck,  and  she  then  remembered  that  he  had  not 
come  to  arouse  her  by  a  knocking  as  usual,  her  own 
anxiety  having  caused  her  to  stir.  j 

His  breakfast  was  set  in  its  place  without.  But 
he  did  not  appear  to  take  it ;  and  she  waited  on. 
Nine  o'clock  arrived,  and  the  breakfast  was  cold ;  and 
still  there  was  no  Giles.  A  thrush  who  had  been 
repeating  himself  a  good  deal  on  an  opposite  bush  for 
some  time,  came  and  took  a  morsel  from  the  plate, 
bolted  it,  waited,  looked  around,  and  took  another. 
At  ten  o'clock  she  drew  in  the  tray  and  sat  down  to 
her  own  solitary  meal.  He  must  have  been  called 
away  on  business  early,  the  rain  having  cleared  off. 

Yet  she  would  have  liked  to  assure  herself,  by 
thoroughly  exploring  the  precincts  of  the  hut,  that 
he  was  nowhere  in  its  vicinity ;  but  as  the  day  was 
comparatively  fine  the  dread  lest  some  stray  passenger 
or  woodman  should  encounter  her  in  such  a  recon- 
noitre paralyzed  her  wish.  The  solitude  was  further 
accentuated  to-day  by  the  stopping  of  the  clock  for 
want  of  winding,  and  the  fall  into  the  chimney-corner 
of  flakes  of  soot  loosened  by  the  rains.  At  noon  she 
heard  a  slight  rustling  outside  the  window,  and  found 
that  it  was  caused  by  an  eft  which  had  crept  out  of 
the  leaves  to  bask  in  the  last  sun-rays  that  would  be 
worth  having  till  the  following  May. 

375 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

She  continually  peeped  out  through  the  lattice, 
but  could  see  little.  In  front  lay  the  brown  leaves  of 
last  year,  and  upon  them  some  yellowish  green  ones 
of  this  season  that  had  been  prematurely  blown  down 
by  the  gale.  Above  stretched  an  old  beech,  with 
vast  arm -pits,  and  great  pocket -holes  in  its  sides 
where  branches  had  been  removed  in  past  times ;  a 
black  slug  was  trying  to  climb  it.  Dead  boughs 
were  scattered  about  like  ichthyosauri  in  a  museum, 
and  beyond  them  were  perishing  woodbine  stems 
resembling  old  ropes. 

From  the  other  window  all  she  could  see  were 
more  trees,  in  jackets  of  lichen  and  stockings  of  moss. 
At  their  roots  were  stemless  yellow  fungi  like  lemons 
and  apricots,  and  tall  fungi  with  more  stem  than 
stool.  Next  were  more  trees  close  together,  wrestling 
for  existence,  their  branches  disfigured  with  wounds 
resulting  from  their  mutual  rubbings  and  blows.  It 
was  the  struggle  between  these  neighbours  that  she 
had  heard  in  the  night.  Beneath  them  were  the 
rotting  stumps  of  those  of  the  group  that  had  been 
vanquished  long  ago,  rising  from  their  mossy  setting 
like  black  teeth  from  green  gums.  Further  on 
were  other  tufts  of  moss  in  islands  divided  by  the 
shed  leaves — variety  upon  variety,  dark  green  and 
pale  green ;  moss  like  little  fir-trees,  like  plush, 
like  malachite  stars ;  like  nothing  on  earth  except 
moss. 

The  strain  upon  Grace's  mind  in  various  ways 
was  so  great  on  this  the  most  desolate  day  she  had 
passed  there  that  she  felt  it  would  be  well-nigh 
impossible  to  spend  another  in  such  circumstances. 
The  evening  came  at  last;  the  sun,  when  its  chin 
was  on  the  earth,  found  an  opening  through  which 
to  pierce  the  shade,  and  stretched  irradiated  gauzes 
across  the  damp  atmosphere,  making  the  wet  trunks 
shine,  and  throwing  splotches  of  such  ruddiness  on 
the  leaves  beneath  the  beech  that  they  were  turned 
to  gory  hues.     When  night  at  last  arrived,  and  with 

376 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

it  the  time  for  his  return,  she  was  nearly  broken  down 
with  suspense. 

The  simple  evening  meal,  partly  tea,  partly  supper, 
which  Grace  had  prepared,  stood  waiting  upon  the 
hearth  ;  and  yet  Giles  did  not  come.  It  was  now 
nearly  twenty-four  hours  since  she  had  seen  him.  As 
the  room  grew  darker,  and  only  the  fire-light  broke 
against  the  gloom  of  the  walls,  she  was  convinced 
that  it  would  be  beyond  her  staying  power  to  pass 
the  night  without  hearing  from  him  or  from  some- 
body. Yet  eight  o'clock  drew  on,  and  his  form  at 
the  window  did  not  appear. 

The  meal  remained  untasted.  Suddenly  rising 
from  before  the  hearth  of  smouldering  embers,  where 
she  had  been  crouching  with  her  hands  clasped  over 
her  knees,  she  crossed  the  room,  unlocked  the  door, 
and  listened.  Every  breath  of  wind  had  ceased  with 
the  decline  of  day,  but  the  rain  had'  resumed  the 
steady  dripping  of  the  night  before.  Grace  might 
have  stood  there  five  minutes  when  she  fancied  she 
heard  that  old  sound,  a  cough,  at  no  great  distance ; 
and  it  was  presently  repeated.  If  it  were  Winter- 
borne's  he  must  be  near  her ;  why,  then,  had  he  not 
visited  her.f* 

A  horrid  misgiving  that  he  could  not  visit  her 
took  possession  of  Grace,  and  she  looked  up  anxiously 
for  the  lantern,  which  was  hanging  above  her  head. 
To  light  it  and  go  in  the  direction  of  the  sound 
would  be  the  obvious  way  to  solve  the  dread  problem ; 
but  the  conditions  made  her  hesitate,  and  in  a  moment 
a  cold  sweat  pervaded  her  at  further  sounds  from  the 
same  quarter. 

They  were  low  mutterings  ;  at  first  like  persons 
in  conversation,  but  gradually  resolving  themselves 
into  varieties  of  one  voice.  It  was  an  endless 
monologue,  like  that  we  sometimes  hear  from  in- 
animate nature  in  deep  secret  places  where  water 
flows,  or  where  ivy  leaves  flap  against  stones ;  but 
by  degrees   she  was    convinced   that   the  voice  was 

377 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

Winterborne's.  Yet  who  could  be  his  listener,  so 
mute,  and  so  patient  ?  for  though  he  argued  rapidly 
and  persistently  nobody  replied. 

A  dreadful  enlightenment  spread  through  the  mind 

of  Grace.     *  O,'  she  cried  in  her  anguish  as  she  hastily 

prepared  herself  to  go  out ;  *  how  selfishly  correct  I 

\       am  always — too,  too  correct !     Can   it  be  that  cruel 

\      propriety  is  killing  the  dearest  heart  that  ever  woman 

i      clasped  to  her  own  ! ' 

'  While  speaking  thus  to  herself  she  had  lit  the 

lantern,  and  hastening  out  without  further  thought 
took  the  direction  whence  the  mutterings  had  pro- 
ceeded. The  course  was  marked  by  a  little  path, 
which  ended  at  a  distance  of  about  forty  yards  in  a 
small  erection  of  hurdles,  not  much  larger  than  a 
shock  of  corn,  such  as  were  frequent  in  the  woods  and 
copses  when  the  cutting  season  was  going  on.  It  was 
too  slight  even  to  be  called  a  hovel,  and  was  not  high 
enough  to  stand  upright  in ;  appearing,  in  short,  to 
be  erected  for  the  temporary  shelter  of  fuel.  The  side 
towards  Grace  was  open,  and  turning  the  light  upon 
the  interior  she  beheld  what  her  prescient  fear  had 
pictured  in  snatches  all  the  way  thither. 

Upon  the  hay  within  her  lover  lay  in  his  clothes, 
just  as  she  had  seen  him  during  the  whole  of  her  stay 
here  except  that  his  hat  was  off,  and  his  hair  matted 
and  wild. 

Both  his  clothes  and  the  hay  were  saturated  with 
rain.  His  arms  were  flung  over  his  head ;  his  face 
was  flushed  to  an  unnatural  crimson.  His  eyes  had  a 
burning  brightness,  and,  though  they  met  her  own, 
she  perceived  that  he  did  not  recognize  her. 

*0,  my  Giles,'  she  cried,  *what  have  I  done  to 
you!* 

But  she  stopped  no  longer  even  to  reproach  her- 
self. She  saw  that  the  first  thing  to  be  thought  of 
was  to  get  him  indoors. 

How  Grace  performed  that  labour  she  never  could 
have  exactly  explained.     But  by  dint  of  clasping  her 

378 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

arms  around  him,  rearing  him  into  a  sitting  posture 
and  straining  her  strength  to  the  uttermost,  she  put 
him  on  one  of  the  hurdles  that  was  loose  alongside, 
and  taking  the  end  of  it  in  both  her  hands,  dragged 
him  along  the  path  to  the  entrance  of  the  hut,  and, 
after  a  pause  for  breath,  in  at  the  doorway. 

It  was  somewhat  singular  that  Giles  in  his  semi 
conscious  state  acquiesced  unresistingly  in  all  that  she; 
did.  But  he  never  for  a  moment  recognized  her, 
continuing  his  rapid  conversation  to  himself  and  seem- 
ing to  look  upon  her  as  some  angel  or  other  super- 
natural creature  of  the  visionary  world  in  which  he 
was  mentally  living.  The  undertaking  occupied  her 
more  than  ten  minutes ;  but  by  that  time,  to  her  great 
thankfulness,  he  was  in  the  hut  lying  in  her  bed,  his 
damp  clothing  removed. 

Then  the  unhappy  Grace  regarded  him  by  the  light 
of  the  candle.  There  was  something  in  his  look  which 
agonized  her,  in  the  rush  of  his  thoughts,  accelerating 
their  speed  from  minute  to  minute.  His  soul  seemed 
to  be  passing  through  the  universe  of  ideas  like  a 
comet ;  erratic,  inapprehensible,  untraceable. 

Grace's  distraction  was  almost  as  great  as  his.  In 
a  few  moments  she  firmly  believed  he  was  dying. 
Unable  to  withstand  her  impulse  she  knelt  down  beside 
him,  kissed  his  hands,  and  his  face,  and  his  hair,  moan- 
ing in  a  low  voice  :  *  How  could  I !     How  could  I ! ' 

Her  timid  morality  had,  indeed,  underrated  his 
chivalry  till  now,  though  she  knew  him  so  well.  The 
purity  of  his  nature,  his  freedom  from  the  grosser 
passions,  his  scrupulous  delicacy,  had  never  been  fully 
understood  by  Grace  till  this  strange  self-sacrifice  in 
lonely  juxtaposition  to  her  own  person  was  revealed. 
The  perception  of  it  added  something  that  was  little 
short  of  reverence  to  the  deep  affection  for  him  of  a 
woman  who,  herself,  had  more  of  Artemis  than  of 
Aphrodite  in  her  constitution. 

All  that  a  tender  nurse  could  do  Grace  did ;  and 
the  power  to  express  her  solicitude  in  action,  uncon- 

379 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

scious  though  the  sufferer  was,  brought  her  mournful 
satisfaction.  She  bathed  his  hot  head,  clasped  his 
twitching  hands,  moistened  his  lips,  cooled  his  fiery 
eyelids,  sponged  his  heated  skin,  and  administered 
whatever  she  could  find  in  the  house  that  the  imagi- 
nation could  conceive  as  likely  to  be  in  any  way 
alleviating.  That  she  might  have  been  the  cause,  or 
partially  the  cause,  of  all  this,  interfused  misery  with 
her  sorrow. 

Six  months  before  this  date  a  scene,  almost  similar 
in  its  mechanical  parts,  had  been  enacted  at  Hintock 
House.  It  was  between  a  pair  of  persons  most  inti- 
mately connected  in  their  lives  with  these.  Outwardly 
like  as  it  had  been,  it  was  yet  infinite  in  spiritual 
difference ;  though  a  woman's  devotion  had  been 
common  to  both. 

Grace  rose  from  her  attitude  of  affection  and, 
bracing  her  energies,  saw  that  something  practical 
must  immediately  be  done.  Much  as  she  would  have 
liked,  in  the  emotion  of  the  moment,  to  keep  him 
entirely  to  herself,  medical  assistance  was  necessary 
whilst  there  remained  a  possibility  of  preserving  him 
alive.  Such  assistance  was  fatal  to  her  own  conceal- 
ment ;  but  even  had  the  chance  of  benefiting  him  been 
less  than  it  was  she  would  have  run  the  hazard  for.  his 
sake.  The  question  was,  where  should  she  get  a 
medical  man,  competent  and  near  ? 

There  was  one  such  man,  and  only  one,  within  acces- 
sible distance :  a  man  who,  if  it  were  possible  to  save 
Winterborne's  life,  had  the  brain  most  likely  to  do  it. 
If  human  pressure  could  bring  him  that  man  ought  to 
be  brought  to  the  sick  Giles's  side.  Though  com- 
pletely stultifying  her  flight  the  attempt  should  be 
made. 

Yet  she  dreaded  to  leave  her  patient,  and  the 
minutes  raced  past,  and  still  she  postponed  her  depar- 
ture. At  last,  when  it  was  after  eleven  o'clock, 
Winterborne  fell  into  a  fitful  sleep,  and  it  seemed  to 
afford  her  an  opportunity. 

380 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

She  hastily  made  him  as  comfortable  as  she  could, 
put  on  her  things,  cut  a  new  candle  from  the  bunch 
hanging  in  the  cupboard,  and  having  set  it  up,  and 
placed  it  so  that  the  light  did  not  fall  upon  his  eyes, 
she  closed  the  door  and  started,  there  being  now  no 
rain. 

The  spirit  of  Winterborne  seemed  to  keep  her 
company  and  banish  all  sense  of  darkness  from  her 
mind.  The  rains  had  imparted  a  phosphorescence  to 
the  pieces  of  touchwood  and  rotting  leaves  that  lay 
about  her  path,  which,  as  scattered  by  her  feet,  spread 
abroad  like  luminous  milk.  She  would  not  run  the 
hazard  of  losing  her  way  by  plunging  into  any  short, 
unfrequented  track  through  the  woodland,  but  followed 
a  more  open  course  round  by  the  highway.  She 
went  along  with  great  speed,  animated  by  a  devoted 
purpose  which  had  much  about  it  that  was  stoical ; 
and  it  was  with  scarcely  any  faltering  of  spirit  that, 
after  an  hour's  progress,  she  saw  High-Stoy  Hill,  and 
drew  onwards  towards  that  same  Hintock  and  that 
same  house  out  of  which  she  had  fled  a  few  days  before 
in  irresistible  alarm.  But  that  had  happened  which, 
above  all  other  things  of  chance  and  change,  could 
make  her  deliberately  frustrate  her  plan  of  flight,  and 
sink  all  regard  of  personal  consequences. 

One  speciality  of  Fitzpiers  was  respected  by  Grace 
as  much  as  ever  :  his  professional  skill.  In  this  she 
was  right.  Had  his  persistence  equalled  his  insight 
instead  of  being  the  spasmodic  and  fitful  thing  it 
was,  fame  and  fortune  need  never  have  remained  a 
wish  with  him.  His  freedom  from  conventional  errors 
and  crusted  prejudices  had  indeed  been  such  as  to 
retard  rather  than  accelerate  his  advance  in  Hintock 
and  its  neighbourhood,  where  people  could  not  believe 
that  Nature  herself  effected  cures,  and  that  the 
doctor's  business  was  only  to  smooth  the  way. 

It  was  past  midnight  when  Grace  arrived  opposite 
her  father's  house,  now  again  temporarily  occupied 
by  her  husband,  unless  he  had  already  gone  away. 

381 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

Ever  since  her  emergence  from  the  denser  plantations 
about  Winterborne's  residence  a  pervasive  lightness 
had  hung  in  the  damp  autumn  sky  in  spite  of  the  vault 
of  cloud,  signifying  that  a  moon  of  some  age  was 
shining  above  its  arch.  The  two  white  gates  were 
distinct,  and  the  white  balls  on  the  pillars :  and  the 
puddles  and  damp  ruts  left  by  the  recent  rain  had  a 
cold  corpse-eyed  luminousness.  She  entered  by  the 
lower  gate  and  crossed  the  quadrangle  to  the  wing 
wherein  the  apartments  that  had  been  hers  since  her 
marriage  were  situate,  till  she  stood  under  a  window, 
which,  if  her  husband  were  in  the  house,  gave  light 
to  his  bed-chamber. 

She  faltered,  and  paused  with  her  hand  on  her 
heart,  in  spite  of  herself.  Could  she  call  to  her 
presence  the  very  cause  of  all  her  foregoing  troubles  ? 
Alas ! — old  Jones  was  many  miles  off;  Giles  was  pos- 
sibly dying — what  else  could  she  do  ? 

It  was  in  a  perspiration,  wrought  even  more  by 
consciousness  than  by  exercise,  that  she  picked  up 
some  gravel,  threw  it  at  the  panes,  and  waited  to  see 
the  result.  The  night-bell  which  had  been  fixed 
when  Fitzpiers  first  took  up  his  residence  there  still 
remained ;  but  as  it  had  fallen  into  disuse  with  the 
collapse  of  his  practice,  and  his  elopement,  she  did 
not  venture  to  pull  it  now. 

Whoever  slept  in  the  room  had  heard  her  signal, 
slight  as  it  was.  In  half  a  minute  the  window  was 
opened,  and  a  voice  said  *  Yes  ?  '  inquiringly.  Grace 
recognized  her  husband  in  the  speaker  at  once.  Her 
effort  was  now  to  disguise  her  own  accents. 

*  Doctor,'  she  said,  in  as  unusual  a  tone  as  she 
could  command,  *  a  man  is  dangerously  ill  in  One- 
Chimney  Hut,  by  Delborough,  and  you  must  go  to 
him  at  once — in  all  mercy  1  * 

*  I  will,  readily.' 

The  alacrity,  surprise,  and  even  pleasure,  expressed 
in  his  reply,  amazed  her  for  a  moment.  But,  in  truth, 
they  denoted  the  sudden  relief  of  a  man  who,  having 

382 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

got  back  in  a  mood  of  contrition  from  erratic  abandon- 
ment to  doubtful  joys,  found  the  soothing  routine  of 
professional  practice  unexpectedly  opening  anew  to 
him.  The  highest  desire  of  his  soul  just  now  was 
for  a  respectable  life  of  painstaking.  If  this,  his 
first  summons  since  his  return,  had  been  to  attend 
upon  a  cat  or  dog,  he  would  scarcely  have  refused  it 
in  the  circumstances. 

*  Do  you  know  the  way  ? '  she  asked. 

*  Yes,  I  think,'  said  he. 

*  One-Chimney  Hut — in  King's- Hintock  Wood, 
by  Delborough,'  she  repeated.     *And — immediately!* 

*  Yes,  yes,'  said  Fitzpiers. 

Grace  remained  no  longer.  She  passed  through 
the  white  gate  without  slamming  it,  and  hastened  on 
her  way  back.  Her  husband,  then,  had  re-entered 
her  father's  house.  How  he  had  been  able  to  effect  a 
reconciliation  with  the  old  man,  what  were  the  terms 
of  the  treaty  between  them,  she  could  not  so  much 
as  conjecture.  Some  sort  of  truce  must  have  been 
entered  into,  that  was  all  she  could  say.  But  close 
as  the  question  lay  to  her  own  life  there  was  a  more 
urgent  one  which  banished  it  ;  and  she  traced  her  steps 
quickly  along  the  meandering  trackways. 

Meanwhile  Fitzpiers  was  preparing  to  leave  the 
house.  The  state  of  his  mind,  over  and  above  his 
professional  zeal,  was  peculiar.  At  Grace's  first  remark 
he  had  not  recognized  or  suspected  her  presence ;  but 
as  she  went  on  he  was  awakened  to  the  great  resem- 
blance of  the  speaker's  voice  to  his  wife's.  He  had 
taken  in  such  good  faith  the  statement  of  the  household 
on  his  arrival,  that  she  had  gone  on  a  visit  for  a  time 
because  she  could  not  at  once  bring  her  mind  to  be 
reconciled  to  him,  that  he  could  not  quite  believe  this 
neighbour  to  be  she.  It  was  one  of  the  features  of 
Fitzpiers's  repentant  humour  at  this  date  that,  on 
receiving  the  explanation  of  her  absence,  he  had  made 
no  attempt  to  outrage  her  feelings  by  following  her ; 
though  nobody  had  informed  him  how  very  shortly  her 

383 


THE  WQODLANDERS 

departure  had  preceded  his  entry,  and  of  all  that 
might  have  been  inferred  from  her  precipitancy. 

Melbury,  after  much  alarm  and  consideration,  had 
decided  not  to  follow  her  either.  He  sympathized 
with  her  flight,  much  as  he  deplored  it ;  moreover,  the 
tragic  colour  of  the  antecedent  events  that  he  had 
been  a  great  means  of  creating  checked  his  instinct  to 
interfere.  He  prayed  and  trusted  that  she  had  got 
into  no  danger  on  her  way  (as  he  supposed)  to  Ivell, 
and  thence  to  Exonbury,  if  that  were  the  place  she 
had  gone  to,  forbearing  all  inquiry  which  the  strange- 
ness of  her  departure  would  have  made  natural.  A 
few  months  before  this  time  a  performance  by  Grace 
of  one-tenth  the  magnitude  of  this  would  have  aroused 
him  to  unwonted  investigation. 

It  was  in  the  same  spirit  that  he  had  tacitly 
assented  to  Fitzpiers's  domiciliation  there.  The  two 
men  had  not  met  face  to  face,  but  Mrs.  Melbury  had 
proposed  herself  as  an  intermediary  who  made  the 
surgeon's  re-entrance  comparatively  easy  to  him. 
Everything  was  provisional,  and  nobody  asked  ques- 
tions. Fitzpiers  had  come  in  the  performance  of  a 
plan  of  penitence  which  had  originated  in  circumstances 
hereafter  to  be  explained ;  his  self-humiliation  to  the 
very  bass-string  was  deliberate  ;  and  as  soon  as  a  voice 
reached  him  from  the  bedside  of  a  dying  man  his 
desire  was  to  set  to  work  and  do  as  much  good  as  he 
could  with  the  least  possible  fuss  or  show.  He  there- 
fore refrained  from  calling  up  a  stableman  to  get  ready 
any  horse  or  gig,  and  set  out  for  One-Chimney  Hut 
on  foot  as  Grace  had  done. 


XLIII 

She  re-entered  the  hut,  flung  off  her  bonnet  and 
cloak,  and  approached  the  sufferer.  He  had  begun 
anew  those  terrible  mutterings,  and  his  hands  were 
cold.  As  soon  as  she  saw  him  there  returned  to  her 
that  agony  of  mind  which  the  stimulus  of  her  journey- 
had  thrown  off  for  a  time. 

Could  he  really  be  dying  ?  She  bathed  him,  kissed 
him,  forgot  all  things  but  the  fact  that  lying  there 
before  her  was  he  who  had  loved  her  more  than  the 
mere  lover  would  have  loved ;  had  immolated  himself 
for  her  comfort,  cared  more  for  her  self-respect  than 
she  had  thought  of  caring.  This  mood  continued  till 
she  heard  quick,  smart  footsteps  without ;  she  knew 
whose  footsteps  they  were. 

Grace  sat  on  the  inside  of  the  bed  against  the  wall, 
holding  her  lover's  hand,  so  that  when  her  husband 
entered  the  patient  lay  between  herself  and  him.  He 
stood  transfixed  at  first,  noticing  Grace  only.  Slowly 
he  dropped  his  glance  and  discerned  who  the  prostrate 
man  was.  Strangely  enough,  though  Grace's  distaste 
for  her  husband's  company  had  amounted  almost  to 
dread,  and  culminated  in  actual  flight,  at  this  moment 
her  last  and  least  feeling  was  personal.  Sensitive 
femininity  was  eclipsed  by  devoted  purpose ;  and  that 
it  was  a  husband  who  stood  there  was  forgotten.  The 
first  look  that  possessed  her  face  was  relief;  satisfaction 
at  the  presence  of  the  physician  obliterated  the  thought 
of  the  man,  which  only  returned  in  the  form  of  a  sub- 
consciousness that  did  not  interfere  with  her  words. 

385 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

*  Is  he  dying — Is  there  any  hope  ?  '  she  asked. 

*  Grace  ! '  said  Fitzpiers  in  an  indescribable  whisper 
— more  than  invocating — if  not  quite  deprecatory. 

He  was  arrested  by  the  spectacle,  not  so  much 
in  its  intrinsic  character — though  that  was  striking 
enough  to  a  man  who  called  himself  the  husband  of 
the  sufferer's  friend  and  nurse — but  in  its  character 
as  the  counterpart  of  one  that  had  had  its  run  many 
months  before,  in  which  he  had  figured  as  the  patient, 
and  the  woman  had  been  Felice  Charmond. 

*  Is  he  in  great  danger — can  you  save  him?*  she 
asked  again. 

Fitzpiers  aroused  himself,  came  a  little  nearer,  and 
examined  Winterborne  as  he  stood.  His  inspection 
was  concluded  in  a  mere  glance.  Before  he  spoke  he 
looked  at  her  contemplatively  as  to  the  effect  of  his 
coming  words. 

*  He  is  dying,'  he  said  with  dry  precision. 

*  What  ?  '  said  she. 

*  Nothing  can  be  done  by  me  or  any  other  man. 
It  will  soon  be  all  over.  The  extremities  are  dead 
already.*  His  eyes  still  remained  fixed  on  her,  the 
conclusion  to  which  he  had  come  seeming  to  end  his 
interest,  professional  and  otherwise,  in  Winterborne 
for  ever. 

*  But  it  cannot  be !     He  was  well  a  week  ago.' 

*  Not  well,  I  suspect.  This  seems  like  what  we 
call  a  sequel,  which  has  followed  some  previous  dis- 
order— possibly  typhoid — it  may  have  been  months 
ago,  or  recently.' 

*  Ah — he  was  ill  last  year — you  are  right.  And 
he  must  have  been  ill  when  I  came  ! ' 

There  was  nothing  more  to  do  or  say.  She 
crouched  down  at  the  side  of  the  bed,  and  Fitzpiers 
took  a  seat.  Thus  they  remained  in  silence,  and  long 
as  it  lasted  she  never  turned  her  eyes,  or  apparently 
her  thoughts,  at  all  to  her  husband.  He  occasionally 
murmured,  with  automatic  authority,  some  slight  direc- 
tions for  alleviating  the  pain  of  the  dying  man,  which 

386 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

she  mechanically  obeyed,   bending   over  him  during 
the  intervals  in  silent  tears. 

Winterborne  never  recovered  consciousness  of 
what  was  passing ;  and  that  he  was  going  became 
soon  perceptible  also  to  her.  In  less  than  an  hour 
the  delirium  ceased  ;  then  there  was  an  interval  of 
somnolent  painlessness  and  soft  breathing,  at  the  end 
of  which  Winterborne  passed  quietly  away. 

Then  Fitzpiers  broke  the  silence,  *  Have  you 
lived  here  long  ? '  he  said. 

Grace  was  wild  with  sorrow — bitter  with  all  that 
had  befallen  her — with  the  cruelties  that  had  attacked 
her  —  with  life  —  with  Heaven.  She  answered  at 
random.     *  Yes.     By  what  right  do  you  ask  ?  * 

'  Don't  think  I  claim  any  right,'  said  Fitzpiers.  *  It 
is  for  you  to  do  and  say  what  you  choose.  I  admit, 
quite  as  much  as  you  feel,  that  I  am  a  vagabond — a 
brute — not  worthy  to  possess  the  smallest  fragment 
of  you.  But  here  I  am,  and  I  have  happened  to  take 
sufficient  interest  in  you  to  make  that  inquiry.' 

'  He  is  everything  to  me ! '  said  Grace,  hardly- 
heeding  her  husband,  and  laying  her  hand  reverently 
on  the  dead  man's  eyelids,  where  she  kept  it  a  long 
time,  pressing  down  their  lashes  with  gentle  touches, 
as  if  she  were  stroking  a  little  bird. 

He  watched  her  awhile,  and  then  glanced  round 
the  chamber,  where  his  eyes  fell  upon  a  few  dressing 
necessaries  that  she  had  brought. 

*  Grace — if  I  may  call  you  so,'  he  said,  *  I  have 
been  already  humiliated  almost  to  the  depths.  I  have 
come  back — since  you  refused  to  join  me  elsewhere 
— I  have  entered  your  father's  house — and  borne  all 
which  that  cost  me  without  flinching,  because  I  have 
felt  I  deserved  humiliation.  But  is  there  a  yet  greater 
humiliation  in  store  for  me  ?  You  say  you  have  been 
living  here  with  him — that  he  was  everything  to  you. 
Am  I  to  draw  from  that  the  obvious,  the  extremest 
inference  ? ' 

387 


1  A^^Qj^       THE  WOODLANDERS 

^^r^     Triumph  at  any  price  is  sweet  to  men  and  women 

— especially  the  latter.       It    was   her  first   and    last 

/   opportunity  of  repaying   him   for   the   slights  which 

'     she  had  borne  at  his  hands  so  docilely. 

^,.  -'Yes,'  she  answered;  'the  extremest  inference'; 
and  there  was  that  in  her  subtly  compounded 
nature  which  made  her  feel  a  thrill  of  pride  as  she 
did  so. 

Yet  the  moment  after  she  had  so  mightily  belied 
her  conduct  she  half  repented.  Her  husband  had 
turned  as  white  as  the  wall  behind  him.  It  seemed 
as  if  all  that  remained  to  him  of  hope  and  spirit  had 
been  abstracted  at  a  stroke.  Yet  he  did  not  move, 
and  in  his  efforts  at  self-control  closed  his  mouth 
together  as  a  vice.  His  determination  was  fairly 
successful,  though  she  saw  how  very  much  greater 
than  she  had  expected  her  triumph  had  been. 
Presently  he  looked  across  at  Winterborne. 

*  Would  it  startle  you  to  hear,'  he  said,  as  if  he 
hardly  had  breath  to  utter  words,  *  that  she  who  was 
to  me  what  he  was  to  you  is  dead  also  ? ' 

*  Dead — sAe  dead  ?  '  exclaimed  Grace. 

*  Yes.  Felice  Charmond  is  where  this  young 
man  is.* 

*  Never ! '  said  Grace  vehemently. 

He  went  on  without  heeding  the  insinuation : 
*  And  I  came  back  to  try  to  make  it  up  with  you ; 
but— '^ 

Fitzpiers  rose  and  moved  across  the  room  to  go 
away,  looking  downwards  with  the  droop  of  a  man 
whose  hope  was  turned  to  apathy,  if  not  despair.  In 
going  round  the  door  his  eye  fell  upon  her  once  more. 
She  was  still  bending  over  the  body  of  Winterborne, 
her  face  close  to  his. 

*  Have  you  been  kissing  him  during  his  illness.'*' 
asked  her  husband. 

*  Yes.' 

*  Since  his  fevered  state  set  in  ? ' 
•Yes.' 

388 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

*  On  his  lips  ?  ' 

*  Yes,  a  hundred  times  ! ' 

*  Then  you  will  do  well  to  take  a  few  drops  of  this 
in  water  as  soon  as  possible.' 

He  drew  a  small  phial  from  his  pocket,  and  re- 
turned to  offer  it  to  her. 
Grace  shook  her  head. 

*  If  you  don't  do  as  I  tell  you,  you  may  soon  be 
like  him.' 

*  I  don't  care  !     I  wish  to  die.* 

*  I'll  put  it  here,'  said  Fitzpiers,  placing  the  bottle 
on  a  ledge  beside  him.  'The  sin  of  not  having  warned 
you  will  not  be  upon  my  head  at  any  rate,  amongst 
my  other  sins.  I  am  now  going,  and  I  will  send 
somebody  to  you.  Your  father  does  not  know  that 
you  are  here,  so  I  suppose  I  shall  be  bound  to  tell 
him  ?  ' 

*  Certainly.' 

Fitzpiers  left  the  cot,  and  the  stroke  of  his  feet 
was  soon  immersed  in  the  silence  that  pervaded  the 
spot.  Grace  remained  kneeling  and  weeping,  she 
hardly  knew  how  long,  and  then  she  sat  up,  covered 
Giles's  fixed  statuesque  features,  and  went  towards 
the  door  where  her  husband  had  stood.  No  sign  of 
any  other  comer  greeted  her  ear,  the  only  perceptible 
sounds  being  the  tiny  cracklings  of  the  dead  leaves 
which,  like  a  feather  bed,  had  not  yet  done  rising  to 
their  normal  level  where  indented  by  the  pressure  of 
her  husband's  receding  footsteps.  It  reminded  her 
that  she  had  been  struck  with  the  change  in  his 
aspect ;  the  extremely  intellectual  look  that  had 
always  been  in  his  face  was  wrought  to  a  finer  phase 
by  thinness,  and  a  careworn  dignity  had  been  super- 
added. She  returned  to  Winterborne's  side,  and 
during  her  meditations  another  tread  drew  near  the 
door,  entered  the  room,  and  halted  at  the  foot  of  the 
bed. 

*  What — Marty  ! '  said  Grace. 

*  Yes.     I  have  heard,'  said  Marty,  whose  demeanour 

389 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

had  lost  all  its  girlishness  under  the  stroke  that 
seemed  almost  literally  to  have  bruised  her. 

*  He  died  for  me  ! '  murmured  Grace  heavily. 
Marty  did  not  fully  comprehend  and  she  answered, 

*  He  belongs  to  neither  of  us  now,  and  your  beauty  is 
no  more  powerful  with  him  than  my  plainness.  I  have 
come  to  help  you,  ma'am.  He  never  cared  for  me, 
and  he  cared  much  for  you ;  but  he  cares  for  us  both 
alike  now.' 

*  O  don't,  don't,  Marty  ! ' 

Marty  said  no  more,  but  knelt  over  Winterborne 
from  the  other  side. 

*  Did  you  meet  my  hus — Mr.  Fitzpiers  ? ' 
*No.' 

*  Then  what  brought  you  here  ?  * 

*  I  come  this  way  sometimes.  I  have  got  to  go  to 
the  further  side  of  the  wood  at  this  time  o*  year,  and 
am  obliged  to  get  there  before  four  o'clock  in  the 
morning,  to  begin  heating  the  oven  for  the  early 
baking.     I  have  passed  by  here  often  at  this  time.' 

Grace  looked  at  her  quickly.  'Then  did  you 
know  I  was  here  ?  * 

*  Yes,  ma'am.* 

*  Did  you  tell  anybody  ?  * 

*  No.  I  knew  you  lived  in  the  hut,  that  he  had 
gi'ed  it  up  to  'ee,  and  lodged  out  himself.' 

*  Did  you  know  where  he  lodged  ? ' 

*  No.  That  I  couldn't  find  out.  Was  it  at 
Delborough  ? ' 

*  No.     It  was  not  there,   Marty.     Would  it  had 

been  !     It  would  have  saved — saved '     To  check 

her  tears  she  turned,  and  seeing  a  book  in  the 
window-bench,  took  it  up.  *  Look,  Marty,  this  is  a 
Psalter.  He  was  not  an  outwardly  religious  man  ; 
but  he  was  pure  and  perfect  in  his  heart.  Shall  we 
read  a  psalm  over  him  ?  ' 

*  O  yes,  we  will ;  with  all  my  heart !  * 

Grace  opened  the  thin  brown  book,  which  poor 
Giles  had  kept  at  hand  mainly  for  the  convenience  of 

390 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

whetting  his  penknife  upon  its  leather  covers.  She 
began  to  read  in  that  rich,  devotional  voice  peculiar 
to  women  on  such  occasions.  When  it  was  over 
Marty  said,  *  I  should  like  to  pray  for  his  soul.' 

'So  should  I,'  said  her  companion.  *  But  we 
must  not.' 

'  Why  ?     Nobody  would  know. 

Grace  could  not  resist  the  argument,  influenced  as 
she  was  by  the  sense  of  making  amends  for  having 
neglected  him  in  the  body ;  and  their  tender  voices 
united  and  filled  the  narrow  room  with  supplicatory 
murmurs  that  a  Calvinist  might  have  countenanced. 
They  had  hardly  ended  when  new  and  more  numerous 
footfalls  were  audible  ;  also  persons  in  conversation, 
one  of  whom  Grace  recognized  as  her  father. 

She  rose  and  went  to  the  outside  of  the  hut,  where 
there  was  only  such  light  as  beamed  from  the  doorway. 
Melbury  and  Mrs.  Melbury  were  standing  there. 

'  I  don't  reproach  you,  Grace,'  said  her  father, 
with  an  estranged  manner  and  in  a  voice  not  at  all 
like  his  old  voice.  *  What  has  come  upon  you  and 
us  through  you  giving  up  yourself  to  him  is  beyond 
reproach,  beyond  weeping  and  beyond  wailing. 
Perhaps  I  drove  you  to  it.  But  I  am  hurt ;  I  am 
scourged;  I  am  astonished!  In  the  face  o^  tbis 
there  is  nothing  to  be  said.' 

Without  replying  Grace  turned  and  glided  bacic  to 
the  chamber.  *  Marty,'  she  said  quickly,  '  I  cannot 
look  my  father  in  the  face  until  he  knows  the  true 
circumstances  of  my  life  here.  Go  and  tell  him — 
what  you  have  told  me — what  you  saw — that  he  gave 
up  his  house  to  me.' 

She  sat  down,  her  face  buried  in  her  hands,  and 
Marty  went,  and  after  a  short  absence  returned. 
Then  Grace  rose,  and  going  out,  asked  her  father  if 
he  had  talked  to  Marty. 

*  Yes,'  said  Melbury. 

*  And  you  know  all  that  has  happened  ?  I  will  let 
my  husband  think  the  utmost,  but  not  you.* 

391 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

*  I  do.  Forgive  me,  Grace,  for  suspecting  'ee  of 
worse  than  rashness — I  ought  to  know  ee  better. 
Are  you  coming  with  me  to  what  was  once  your 
home  ? ' 

*  No.  I  stay  here  with  him.  Take  no  account  of 
me  any  more.' 

The  tender,  perplexing,  agitating  relations  in 
which  she  had  stood  to  Winterborne  quite  lately — 
brought  about  by  Melbury's  own  contrivance — could 
not  fail  to  soften  the  natural  anger  of  a  parent  at  her 
more  recent  doings.  *  My  daughter,  things  are  bad,' 
he  rejoined.  *  But  why  do  you  persevere  to  make 
'em  worse  ?  What  good  can  you  do  to  Giles  by 
staying  here  with  him?  Mind,  I  ask  no  questions. 
I  don't  inquire  why  you  decided  to  come  here,  or 
anything  as  to  what  your  course  would  have  been  if 
he  had  not  died,  though  I  know  there's  no  deliberate 
harm  in  'ee.  As  for  me,  I  have  lost  all  claim  upon 
you ;  and  I  make  no  complaint.  But  I  do  say  that 
by  coming  back  with  me  now  you  will  show  no  less 
kindness  to  him,  and  escape  any  sound  of  shame.' 

*  But  I  don't  wish  to  escape  it.* 

*  If  you  don't  on  your  own  account,  cannot  you 
wish  to  on  mine  and  hers?  Nobody  except  our 
household  knows  that  you  have  left  home.  Then 
why  should  you  by  a  piece  of  perverseness  bring 
down  my  hairs  with  sorrow  to  the  grave  ?  * 

*  If  it  were  not  for  my  husband '  she  began, 

moved  by  his  words.  *  But  how  can  I  meet  him 
there?  How  can  any  woman  who  is  not  a  mere 
man's  creature  live  with  him  after  what  has  taken 
place  ?  * 

*  He  would  go  away  again  rather  than  keep  you 
out  of  my  house.' 

*  How  do  you  know  that,  father  ?  * 

*  We  met  him  on  our  way  here,  and  he  told  us  so,* 
said  Mrs.  Melbury.  *  He  had  said  something  like  it 
before.      He  seems  very  much  upset  altogether.* 

*  He  declared  to  her  when  he  came  to  our  house 

392 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

that  he  would  wait  for  time  and  devotion  to  bring 
about  his  forgiveness,'  said  Melbury.  *That  was  it, 
wasn't  it,  Lucy  ?  ' 

*Yes.  That  he  would  not  intrude  upon  you, 
Grace,  till  you  gave  him  absolute  permission,'  Mrs. 
Melbury  added. 

This  antecedent  considerateness  in  Fitzpiers  was 
as  welcome  to  Grace  as  it  was  unexpected ;  and 
though  she  did  not  desire  his  presence,  she  was  sorry 
that  by  her  retaliatory  fiction  she  had  given  him  a 
different  reason  for  avoiding  her.  She  made  no 
further  objections  to  accompanying  her  parents, 
taking  them  into  the  hut  to  give  Winterborne  a  last 
look,  and  gathering  up  the  two  or  three  things  that 
belonged  to  her.  While  she  was  doing  this  the  two 
women  came  who  had  been  called  by  Melbury,  and  at 
their  heels  poor  Creedle. 

*  Forgive  me,  but  I  can't  rule  my  mourning  nohow 
as  a  man  should,  Mr.  Melbury,'  he  said.  *  I  han't 
seen  him  since  Thursday  se'night,  and  have  wondered 
for  days  and  days  where  he's  been  keeping.  There 
was  I  expecting  him  to  come  and  tell  me  to  wash  out 
the  cider-barrels  against  the  making,  and  here  was 
he.  .  .  .  Well,  I've  knowed  him  from  table-high ;  I 
knowed  his  father — used  to  bide  about  upon  two 
sticks  in  the  sun  afore  he  died ! — and  now  I've  seen 
the  end  of  the  family,  which  we  can  ill  afford  to  lose, 
wi'  such  a  scanty  lot  of  good  folk  in  Hintock  as  we've 
got.  And  now  Robert  Creedle  will  be  nailed  up 
in  parish  boards  'a  b'lieve ;  and  nobody  will  glutch 
down  a  sigh  for  he  !  * 

They  started  for  home,  Marty  and  Creedle  re- 
maining behind.  For  a  time  Grace  and  her  father 
walked  side  by  side  without  speaking.  It  was  just  in 
the  blue  of  the  dawn,  and  the  chilling  tone  of  the  sky 
was  reflected  in  her  cold,  wet  face.  The  whole  wood 
seemed  to  be  a  house  of  death,  pervaded  by  loss  to 
its  uttermost  length  and  breadth.  Winterborne  was 
gone,  and  the  copses  seemed  to  show  the  want  of 

393 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

him ;  those  young  trees,  so  many  of  which  he  hac 
planted,  and  of  which  he  had  spoken  so  truly  when  he 
said  that  he  should  fall  before  they  fell,  were  at  that 
very  moment  sending  out  their  roots  in  the  direction 
that  he  had  given  them  with  his  subtle  hand. 

'One  thing  made  it  tolerable  to  us  that  your 
husband  should  come  back  to  the  house,'  said 
Melbury  at  last.     *  The  death  of  Mrs.  Charmond.* 

'  Ah,  yes,'  said  Grace,  arousing  slightly  to  the 
recollection  ;  *he  told  me  so.* 

*  Did  he  tell  you  how  she  died.'*  It  was  no  such 
death  as  Giles's.  She  was  shot — by  a  disappointed 
lover.  It  occurred  in  Germany.  The  unfortunate 
man  shot  himself  afterwards.  He  was  that  South 
Carolina  gentleman  of  very  passionate  nature,  who 
used  to  haunt  this  place  to  force  her  to  favour  him, 
and  followed  her  about  everywhere.  So  ends  the 
brilliant  Felice  Charmond — once  a  good  friend  to  me 
— but  no  friend  to  you.' 

*  I  can  forgive  her,*  said  Grace  absently.  *  Did 
Edred  tell  you  this?' 

*  No  ;  but  he  put  a  London  newspaper,  giving  an 
account  of  it,  on  the  hall-table,  folded  in  such  a  way 
that  we  should  see  it.  It  will  be  in  the  Sherton  paper 
this  week,  no  doubt.  To  make  the  event  more 
solemn  still  to  him  he  had  just  before  had  sharp 
words  with  her,  and  left  her.  He  told  Lucy  this,  as 
nothing  about  him  appears  in  the  newspaper.  And 
the  cause  of  the  quarrel  was,  of  all  people,  she  we've 
left  behind  us.* 

*  Do  you  mean  Marty  ?  '  Grace  spoke  the  words 
but  perfunctorily.  For,  pertinent  and  pointed  as 
Melbury 's  story  was,  she  had  no  care  for  it  now. 

*  Yes.  Marty  South.'  Melbury  persisted  in  his 
narrative  to  divert  her  from  her  present  grief  if 
possible.  *  Before  he  went  away  she  wrote  him  a 
letter,  which  he  kept  in  his  pocket  a  long  while 
before  reading.  He  chanced  to  pull  it  out  in  Mrs. 
Charmond's  presence,  and  read  it  out  loud.     It  con- 

394 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

tained  something  which  teased  her  very  much,  and  that 
led  to  the  rupture.  She  was  following  him  to  make  it 
up  when  she  met  with  her  terrible  death.' 

Melbury  did  not  know  enough  to  give  the  gist  of 
the  incident,  which  was  that  Marty  South's  letter  had 
been  concerning  a  certain  personal  adornment  common 
to  herself  and  Mrs.  Charmond.  Her  bullet  reached 
its  billet  at  last.  The  scene  between  Fitzpiers  and 
Felice  had  been  sharp,  as  only  a  scene  can  be  which 
arises  out  of  the  mortification  of  one  woman  by 
another  in  the  presence  of  a  lover.  True,  Marty  had 
not  effected  it  by  word  of  mouth ;  the  charge  about 
the  locks  of  hair  was  made  simply  by  Fitzpiers  read- 
ing her  letter  to  him  aloud  to  Felice  in  the  playfully 
ironical  tones  of  one  who  had  become  a  little  weary 
of  his  situation,  and  was  finding  his  friend,  in  the 
phrase  of  George  Herbert,  a  'flat  delight.'  He  had 
stroked  those  false  tresses  with  his  hand  many  a  time 
without  knowing  them  to  be  transplanted,  and  it  was 
impossible  when  the  discovery  was  so  abruptly  made 
to  avoid  being  finely  satirical,  despite  his  generous 
disposition. 

That  was  how  it  had  begun,  and  tragedy  had  been 
its  end.  On  his  abrupt  departure  she  had  followed 
him  to  the  station,  but  the  train  was  gone  ;  and  in 
travelling  to  Homburg  in  search  of  him  she  had  met 
his  rival,  whose  reproaches  led  to  an  altercation,  and 
the  death  of  both.  Of  that  precipitate  scene  of  passion 
and  crime  Fitzpiers  had  known  nothing  till  he  saw  an 
account  of  it  in  the  papers,  where,  fortunately  for  him- 
self, no  mention  was  made  of  his  prior  acquaintance 
with  the  unhappy  lady ;  nor  was  there  any  allusion  to 
him  in  the  subsequent  inquiry,  the  double  death  being 
attributed  to  some  gambling  losses,  though  in  point 
of  fact  neither  one  of  them  had  visited  the  tables. 

Melbury  and  his  daughter  drew  near  their  house, 
having  seen  but  one  living  thing  on  their  way,  a 
squirrel,  which  did  not  run  up  its  tree,  but,  dropping 
the  sweet  chestnut  which  it  carried,  cried  chut-chut- 

395 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

chut  and  stamped  with  its  hind-legs  on  the  ground. 
When  the  roofs  and  chimneys  of  the  homestead  began 
to  emerge  from  the  screen  of  boughs  Grace  started, 
and  checked  herself  in  her  abstracted  advance. 

*  You  clearly  understand,'  she  said  to  her  step- 
mother, some  of  her  old  misgiving  returning,  *  that  I 
am  coming  back  only  on  condition  of  his  leaving  as  he 
promised?  Will  you  let  him  know  this,  that  there 
may  be  no  mistake  ?  * 

Mrs.  Melbury,  who  had  had  some  long  private 
talks  with  Fitzpiers,  assured  Grace  that  she  need  have 
no  doubts  on  that  point,  and  that  he  would  probably 
be  gone  by  the  evening.  Grace  then  entered  with 
them  into  Melbury 's  wing  of  the  house,  and  sat  down 
listlessly  in  the  parlour  while  her  stepmother  went  to 
Fitzpiers. 

The  prompt  obedience  to  her  wishes  which  the 
doctor  showed  did  honour  to  him,  if  anything  could. 
Before  Mrs.  Melbury  had  returned  to  the  room 
Grace,  who  was  sitting  on  the  parlour  window-bench, 
saw  her  husband  go  from  the  door  under  the  in- 
creasing light  of  morning,  with  a  bag  in  his  hand. 
While  passing  through  the  gate  he  turned  his  head. 
The  firelight  of  the  room  she  sat  in  threw  her  figure 
into  dark  relief  against  the  window  as  she  looked 
through  the  panes,  and  he  must  have  seen  her 
distinctly.  In  a  moment  he  went  on,  the  gate  fell  to, 
and  he  disappeared.  At  the  hut  she  had  declared 
that  another  had  usurped  his  rights  ;  now  she  had 
banished  him. 


XLIV 

FiTZPiERS  had  hardly  been  gone  an  hour  when  Grace 
began  to  sicken.  The  next  day  she  kept  her  room. 
Old  Jones  was  called  in  :  he  murmured  some  state- 
ments in  which  the  words  '  feverish  symptoms ' 
occurred.  Grace  heard  them,  and  guessed  the  means 
by  which  she  had  brought  this  visitation  upon  herself. 

One  day  while  she  still  lay  there  with  her  head 
throbbing,  wondering  if  she  were  really  going  to  join 
him  who  had  gone  before,  Grammer  Oliver  came  to 
her  bedside.  *  I  don't  know  whe'r  this  is  meant  for 
you  to  take,  ma'am,'  she  said.  *  But  I  have  found  it 
on  the  table.  It  was  left  by  Marty,  I  think,  when 
she  came  this  morning.* 

Grace  turned  her  hot  eyes  upon  what  Grammer 
held  up.  It  was  the  phial  left  at  the  hut  by  her 
husband  when  he  had  begged  her  to  take  some  drops 
of  its  contents,  if  she  wished  to  preserve  herself  from 
falling  a  victim  to  the  malady  which  had  pulled  down 
Winterborne.  She  examined  it  as  well  as  she  could. 
The  liquid  was  of  a  brownish  hue,  and  bore  a  label 
with  an  inscription  in  Italian.  He  had  probably  got 
.it  in  his  wanderings  abroad.  She  knew  but  little 
'  Italian,  but  could  understand  that  the  cordial  was  a 
febrifuge  of  some  sort.  Her  father,  her  mother,  and 
all  the  household  were  anxious  for  her  recovery,  and 
she  resolved  to  obey  her  husband's  directions.  What- 
ever the  risk,  if  any,  she  was  prepared  to  run  it.  A 
glass  of  water  was  brought,  and  the  drops  dropped  in. 

The  effect,  though  not  miraculous,  was  remarkable, 

397 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

In  less  than  an  hour  she  felt  calmer,  cooler,  better 
able  to  reflect,  less  inclined  to  fret  and  chafe  and  wear 
herself  away.  She  took  a  few  drops  more.  From 
that  time  the  fever  retreated,  and  went  out  like  a 
damped  conflagration. 

*  How  clever  he  is  ! '  she  said  regretfully.  *  Why 
could  he  not  have  had  more  principle,  so  as  to  turn 
his  great  talents  to  good  account !  Perhaps  he  has 
saved  my  useless  life.  But  he  doesn't  know  it,  and 
doesn't  care  whether  he  has  saved  it  or  not ;  and  on 
that  account  will  never  be  told  by  me.  Probably  he 
only  gave  it  to  me  in  the  arrogance  of  his  skill,  to 
show  the  greatness  of  his  resources  beside  mine,  as 
Elijah  drew  down  fire  from  Heaven ! ' 

As  soon  as  she  had  quite  recovered  from  this 
foiled  attack  upon  her  life  Grace  went  to  Marty 
South's  cottage.  The  current  of  her  being  had  again 
set  towards  the  lost  Giles  Winterborne. 

*  Marty,'  she  said,  *  we  both  loved  him.  We  will 
go  to  his  grave  together.' 

The  church  stood  somewhat  outside  the  village, 
and  could  be  reached  without  passing  through  the 
street.  In  the  dusk  of  the  late  September  day  they 
went  thither  by  secret  ways,  walking  mostly  in  silence 
side  by  side,  each  busied  with  her  own  thoughts. 
Grace  had  a  trouble  exceeding  Marty's,  that  haunting 
sense  of  having  put  out  the  light  of  his  life  by  her 
own  hasty  doings.  She  had  tried  to  persuade  herself 
that  he  might  have  died  of  his  illness,  even  if  she  had 
not  taken  possession  of  his  house.  Sometimes  she 
succeeded  in  her  attempt ;  sometimes  she  did  not. 

They  stood  by  the  grave  together,  and  though  the 
sun  had  gone  down  they  could  get  glimpses  over  the 
woodland  for  miles,  and  along  the  vale  in  which  he 
had  been  accustomed  to  descend  every  year  with 
his  portable  mill  and  press  to  make  cider  about  this 
time. 

Perhaps  Grace's  first  grief,  the  discovery  that  if 
he  had  lived  he  could  never  have  claimed  her,  had 

398 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

some  power  in  softening  this,  the  second.  On  Marty's 
part  there  was  the  same  consideration  ;  never  would 
she  have  been  his.  As  no  anticipation  of  gratified 
affection  had  been  in  existence  while  he  was  with  them 
there  was  none  to  be  disappointed  now  that  he  had 
gone. 

Grace  was  abased  when,  by  degrees,  she  found 
that  she  had  never  understood  Giles  as  Marty  had 
done.  Marty  South  alone,  of  all  the  women  in 
Hintock  and  the  world,  had  approximated  to  Winter- 
borne's  level  of  intelligent  intercourse  with  Nature. 
In  that  respect  she  had  formed  his  true  complement 
in  the  other  sex,  had  lived  as  his  counterpart,  had  sub- 
joined her  thoughts  to  his  as  a  corollary. 

The  casual  glimpses  which  the  ordinary  population 
bestowed  upon  that  wondrous  world  of  sap  and  leaves 
called  the  Hintock  woods  had  been  with  these  two, 
Giles  and  Marty,  a  clear  gaze.  They  had  been 
possessed  of  its  finer  mysteries  as  of  commonplace 
knowledge  ;  had  been  able  to  read  its  hieroglyphs  as 
ordinary  writing  ;  to  them  the  sights  and  sounds  of 
night,  winter,  wind,  storm,  amid  those  dense  boughs, 
which  had  to  Grace  a  touch  of  the  uncanny,  and  even 
of  the  supernatural,  were  simple  occurrences  whose 
origin,  continuance,  and  laws  they  foreknew.  They 
had  planted  together,  and  together  they  had  felled  ; 
together  they  had,  with  the  run  of  the  years,  mentally 
collected  those  remoter  signs  and  symbols  which  seen 
in  few  were  of  runic  obscurity,  but  all  together  made 
an  alphabet.  From  the  light  lashing  of  the  twigs 
upon  their  faces  when  brushing  through  them  in  the 
dark  either  could  pronounce  upon  the  species  of  the 
tree  whence  they  stretched ;  from  the  quality  of  the 
wind's  murmur  through  a  bough  either  could  in  like 
manner  name  its  sort  afar  off.  They  knew  by  a  glance 
at  a  trunk  if  its  heart  were  sound,  or  tainted  with 
incipient  decay ;  and  by  the  state  of  its  upper  twigs 
the  stratum  that  had  been  reached  by  its  roots.  The 
artifices  of  the  seasons  were  seen  by  them  from  the 

399 


I) 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

conjuror's  own  point  of  view,  and  not  from  that  of  the 
spectator. 

*  He  ought  to  have  married  you,  Marty,  and 
nobody  else  in  the  world  ! '  said  Grace  with  conviction, 
after  thinking  in  the  above  strain. 

Marty  shook  her  head.  *  In  all  our  outdoor  days 
and  years  together,  ma'am,'  she  replied,  '  the  one 
thing  he  never  spoke  of  to  me  was  love ;  nor  I 
to  him.' 

*  Yet  you  and  he  could  speak  in  a  tongue  that 
nobody  else  knew — not  even  my  father,  though  he 
came  nearest  knowing — the  tongue  of  the  trees  and 
fruits  and  flowers  themselves.' 

She  could  indulge  in  mournful  fancies  like  this  to 
Marty  ;  but  the  hard  core  to  her  grief — which  Marty's 
had  not — remained.  Had  she  been  sure  that  Giles's 
death  resulted  entirely  from  his  exposure,  it  would 
have  driven  her  well-nigh  to  insanity ;  but  there  was 
always  the  bare  possibility  that  his  exposure  had  only 
precipitated  what  was  inevitable.  She  longed  to 
believe  that  it  had  not  done  even  this. 

There  was  only  one  man  whose  opinion  on  the 
circumstances  she  would  be  at  all  disposed  to  trust. 
Her  husband  was  that  man.  Yet  to  ask  him  it  would 
be  necessary  to  detail  the  true  conditions  in  which  she 
and  Winterborne  had  lived  during  these  three  or  four 
critical  days  that  followed  her  flight ;  and  in  withdraw- 
ing her  original  defiant  announcement  on  that  point 
there  seemed  a  weakness  she  did  not  care  to  show. 
She  never  doubted  that  Fitzpiers  would  believe  her 
if  she  made  a  clean  confession  of  the  actual  situation ; 
but  to  volunteer  the  correction  would  seem  like 
signalling  for  a  truce,  and  that  in  her  present  frame 
of  mind  was  what  she  did  not  feel  the  need  of. 

It  will  probably  not  appear  a  surprising  statement, 
after  what  has  been  already  declared  of  Fitzpiers,  that 
the  man  whom  Grace's  matrimonial  fidelity  could  not 
keep  faithful  was  stung  into  passionate  throbs  of  in- 
terest concerning  her  by  her  avowal  of  the  contrary. 

400 


I  THE  WOODLANDERS 

He  declared  to  himself  that  he  had  never  known 
her  dangerously  full  compass  if  she  were  capable  of 
such  a  reprisal ;  and,  melancholy  as  it  may  be  to 
admit  the  fact,  his  own  humiliation  and  regret  en- 
gendered a  smouldering  admiration  of  her. 

He  passed  a  month  or  two  of  nervous  misery  at 
some  midland  town — the  place  to  which  he  had 
retired — quite  as  much  misery  indeed  as  Grace,  could 
she  have  known  of  it,  would  have  been  inclined  to 
inflict  upon  any  living  creature,  how  much  soever  he 
might  have  wronged  her.  Then  a  sudden  hope 
dawned  upon  him  ;  he  wondered  if  her  affirmation 
were  true.  He  asked  himself  whether  it  were  not 
the  act  of  an  innocent  woman  whose  pique  had  for 
the  moment  blinded  her  to  the  contingencies  of  such 
an  announcement.  His  wide  experience  of  the  sex 
had  taught  him  that,  in  many  cases,  women  who 
ventured  on  hazardous  phrases  did  so  because  they 
lacked  an  imagination  gross  enough  to  feel  their  full 
force.  In  this  light  Grace's  bold  avowal  might  merely 
have  denoted  the  desperation  of  one  who  was  a  child 
to  the  realities  of  faithlessness. 

Fitzpiers's  mental  sufferings  and  suspense  led  him 
at  last  to  take  a  melancholy  journey  to  the  neighbour- 
hood of  Little  Hintock  ;  and  here  he  hovered  for  hours 
around  the  scene  of  the  purest  emotional  experiences 
that  he  had  ever  known  in  his  life.  He  walked  about 
the  woods  that  surrounded  Melbury's  house,  keeping 
out  of  sight  like  a  criminal.  It  was  a  fine  evening, 
and  on  his  way  homeward  he  passed  near  Marty 
South's  cottage.  As  usual  she  had  lighted  her  candle 
without  closing  her  shutters  ;  he  saw  her  within  as 
he  had  seen  her  many  times  before. 

She  was  polishing  tools,  and  though  he  had  not 
wished  to  show  himself  he  could  not  resist  speaking 
to  her  through  the  half-open  door.  *  What  are  you 
doing  that  for,  Marty  ? '  » 

*  Because  I  want  to  clean  them.  They  are  not 
mine.*     He  could  see  indeed  that  they  were  not  hers, 

401 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

for  one  was  a  spade,  large  and  heavy,  and  another 
was  a  bill-hook  which  she  could  only  have  used  with 
both  hands.  The  spade,  though  not  a  new  one,  had 
been  so  completely  burnished  that  it  was  bright  as 
silver. 

Fitzpiers  somehow  divined  that  they  were  Giles 
Winterborne's,  and  he  put  the  question  to  her. 

She  replied  in  the  affirmative.  *  I  am  going  to 
keep  'em,*  she  said,  *  but  I  can't  get  his  apple-mill 
and  press.  I  wish  I  could ;  it  is  going  to  be  sold, 
they  say.' 

*  Then  I  will  buy  it  for  you,'  said  Fitzpiers.  *  That 
will  be  making  you  a  return  for  a  kindness  you  did 
me.'  His  glance  fell  upon  the  girl's  rare-coloured 
hair,  which  had  grown  again.  *  O  Marty,  those  locks 
of  yours — and  that  letter !  .  .  .  But  it  was  a  kindness 
to  send  it,  nevertheless,'  he  added  musingly. 

After  this  there  was  confidence  between  them — 
such  confidence  as  there  had  never  been  before. 
Marty  was  shy,  indeed,  of  speaking  about  the  letter 
and  her  motives  in  writing  it ;  but  she  thanked  him 
warmly  for  his  promise  of  the  cider-press.  She  would 
travel  with  it  in  the  autumn  season  as  poor  Giles  had 
done,  she  said.  She  would  be  quite  strong  enough 
with  old  Creedle  as  an  assistant. 

*  Ah  ! — there  was  one  nearer  to  him  than  you,'  said 
Fitzpiers,  referring  to  Grace.  *  One  who  lived  where 
he  lived,  and  was  with  him  when  he  died.' 

Then  Marty,  suspecting  that  he  did  not  know  the 
true  circumstances,  from  the  fact  that  Mrs.  Fitzpiers 
and  himself  were  living  apart,  told  him  of  Giles's 
generosity  to  Grace  in  giving  up  his  house  to  her  at 
the  risk,  and  possibly  the  sacrifice,  of  his  own  life. 
When  the  surgeon  heard  it  he  almost  envied  Giles 
his  chivalrous  character.  He  expressed  a  wish  to 
Marty  that  his  visit  to  her  should  be  kept  secret,  and 
went  home  thoughtful,  feeling  that  in  more  than  one 
sense  his  journey  to  Hintock  had  not  been  in  vain. 

He  would  have  given  much  to  win  Grace's  forgive- 

402 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

ness  then.  But  whatever  he  dared  hope  for  in  that 
kind  from  the  future  there  was  nothing  to  be  done 
yet,  while  Giles  Winterborne's  memory  was  green. 
To  wait  was  imperative.  A  little  time  might  melt 
her  frozen  thoughts,  and  lead  her  to  look  on  him  with 
toleration,  if  not  with  love. 


XLV 

Weeks  and  months  of  mourning  for  Winterborne  had 
been  passed  by  Grace  in  the  soothing  monotony  of 
the  memorial  act  to  which  she  and  Marty  had  devoted 
themselves.  Twice  a  week  the  pair  went  in  the  dusk 
to  Hintock  Churchyard,  and,  like  the  two  mourners 
in  CymbelinCy  sweetened  his  sad  grave  with  their 
flowers  and  their  tears. 

Nothing  ever  had  brought  home  to  her  with  such 
force  as  this  death  how  little  acquirements  and  culture 
weigh  beside  sterling  personal  character.  While  her 
simple  sorrow  for  his  loss  took  a  softer  edge  with  the 
lapse  of  the  autumn  and  winter  seasons,  her  self- 
reproach  at  having  had  a  possible  hand  in  causing  it 
knew  slight  abatement. 

Little  occurred  at  Hintock  during  these  months  of 
the  fall  and  decay  of  the  leaf.  Discussion  of  the 
almost  contemporaneous  death  of  Mrs.  Charmond 
abroad  had  waxed  and  waned.  There  was  a  rumour 
that  her  death  had  resulted  less  from  the  shot  than 
from  the  effect  of  fright  upon  her  personal  condition 
at  the  time  ;  but  this  was  never  verified.  Fitzpiers 
had  had  a  fortunate  escape  from  being  dragged  into 
the  inquiry  which  followed  the  catastrophe,  through 
the  accident  of  having  parted  from  his  mistress  just 
before  it,  under  the  influence  of  Marty  South's  letter 
— the  tiny  instrument  of  a  cause  deep  in  nature. 

Her  body  was  not  brought  home.  It  seemed  to 
accord  well  with  the  fitful  fever  of  that  impassioned 
woman's  life  that  she  should  not  have  found  an  English 

404 


i  THE  WOODLANDERS 

grave.  She  had  enjoyed  but  a  life-interest  in  the 
estate,  which  after  her  death  passed  to  a  relative  ot 
her  husband's — one  who  knew  not  Felice,  one  whose 
purpose  seemed  to  be  to  blot  out  every  vestige  of  her. 

On  a  certain  day  in  February — the  cheerful  day  of 
St.  Valentine — a  letter  reached  Mrs.  Fitzpiers,  which 
had  been  mentally  promised  her  for  that  particular 
day  a  long  time  before. 

Her  husband  announced  that  he  was  living  at 
some  midland  town,  where  he  had  obtained  a  temporary 
practice  as  assistant  to  a  local  medical  man,  whose 
curative  principles  were  all  wrong,  though  he  dared 
not  set  them  right.  He  had  thought  fit  to  com- 
municate with  her  on  that  day  of  tender  traditions  to 
inquire  if,  in  the  event  of  his  obtaining  a  substantial 
practice  that  he  had  in  view  elsewhere,  she  could 
forget  the  past  and  bring  herself  to  join  him. 

There  the  practical  part  ended ;  he  then  went 
on : — 

My  last  year  of  experience  has  added  ten  years  to  my  age, 
dear  Grace,  and  dearest  wife  that  ever  erring  man  under- 
valued. You  may  be  absolutely  indifferent  to  what  I  say, 
but  let  me  say  it ;  I  have  never  loved  any  woman  alive  or 
dead  as  I  love,  respect,  and  honour  you  at  this  present 
moment.  What  you  told  me  in  the  pride  and  naughtiness  of 
your  heart  I  never  believed  [this,  by  the  way,  was  not  strictly 
true] ;  but  even  if  I  had  believed  it,  it  could  never  have 
estranged  me  from  you.  Is  there  any  use  in  telling  you — no, 
there  is  not — that  I  dream  of  your  fresh  lips  more  frequently 
than  I  say  my  prayers :  that  the  old  familiar  rustle  of  your 
dress  often  returns  upon  my  mind  till  it  distracts  me  ?  If  you 
could  condescend  even  only  to  see  me  again  you  would  be 
breathing  life  into  a  corpse.  My  pure,  pure  Grace,  modest  as 
a  turtledove,  how  came  I  ever  to  possess  you  ?  For  the  sake 
of  being  present  in  your  mind  on  this  lovers'  day,  I  think  I 
would  almost  rather  have  you  hate  me  a  little  than  not  think 
of  me  at  all.  You  may  call  my  fancies  whimsical ;  but 
remember,  sweet,  lost  one,  that  *  nature  is  fine  in  love,  and 
where  'tis  fine  it  sends  some  instance  of  itself.' — I  will  not 
intrude  upon  you  further  now.  Make  me  a  little  bit  happy 
by  sending  back  one  line  to  say  that  you  will  consent,  at  any 

405 


( 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

rate,  to  a  short  interview.  I  will  meet  you  and  leave  you  as 
a  mere  acquaintance,  if  you  will  only  afford  me  this  slight 
means  of  making  a  few  explanations,  and  of  putting  my 
position  before  you.  Believe  me,  in  spite  of  all  you  may  do 
or  feel,  your  lover  always  (once  your  husband),  E.  F. 

It  was,  oddly  enough,  the  first  occasion,  or  nearly 
the  first,  on  which  Grace  had  ever  received  a  love- 
letter  from  him,  his  courtship  having  taken  place 
under  conditions  which  rendered  letter-writing  un- 
necessary. Its  perusal,  therefore,  had  a  certain 
novelty  for  her.  She  thought  that,  upon  the  whole, 
he  wrote  love-letters  very  well.  But  the  chief  rational 
interest  of  the  letter  to  the  reflective  Grace  lay  in  the 
chance  that  such  a  meeting  as  he  proposed  would 
afford  her  of  setting  her  doubts  at  rest  one  way  or  the 
other  on  her  actual  share  in  Winterborne's  death. 
The  relief  of  consulting  a  skilled  mind,  the  one  pro- 
fessional man  who  had  seen  Giles  at  that  time,  would 
be  immense.  As  for  that  statement  that  she  had 
uttered  in  her  disdainful  grief,  which  at  the  time  she 
had  regarded  as  her  triumph,  she  was  quite  prepared 
to  admit  to  him  that  his  belief  was  the  true  one ;  for 
in  wronging  herself  as  she  did  when  she  made  it  she 
had  done  what  to  her  was  a  far  more  serious  thing, 
wronged  Winterborne's  memory. 

Without  consulting  her  father,  or  any  one  in  the 
house  or  out  of  it,  Grace  replied  to  the  letter.  She 
agreed  to  meet  Fitzpiers  on  two  conditions,  of  which 
the  first  was  that  the  place  of  meeting  should  be  the 
top  of  High-Stoy  Hill,  the  second  that  he  would  not 
object  to  Marty  South  accompanying  her. 

Whatever  art,  much  or  little,  there  may  have  been 
in  Fitzpiers's  so-called  valentine  to  his  wife,  he  felt  a 
delight  as  of  the  bursting  of  spring  when  her  brief 
reply  came.  It  was  one  of  the  few  pleasures  that  he 
had  experienced  of  late  years  at  all  resembling  those 
of  his  early  youth.  He  promptly  replied  that  he 
accepted  the  conditions,  and  named  the  day  and  hour 
at  which  he  would  be  on  the  spot  she  mentioned. 

406 


I 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

A  few  minutes  before  three  on  the  appointed  day 
found  him  climbing  the  well-known  hill,  which  had 
been  the  axis  of  so  many  critical  movements  in  their 
lives  during  his  residence  at  Hintock. 

The  sight  of  each  homely  and  well-remembered 
object  swelled  the  regret  that  seldom  left  him  now. 
Whatever  paths  might  lie  open  to  his  future  the 
soothing  shades  of  Hintock  were  forbidden  him  for 
ever  as  a  permanent  dwelling-place. 

He  longed  for  the  society  of  Grace.  But  to  lay 
offerings  on  her  slighted  altar  was  his  first  aim,  and 
until  her  propitiation  was  complete  he  would  constrain 
her  in  no  way  to  return  to  him.  The  least  reparation 
that  he  could  make,  in  a  case  where  he  would  gladly 
have  made  much,  would  be  to  let  her  feel  herself 
absolutely  free  to  choose  between  living  with  him  and 
without  him. 

Moreover,  a  subtlist  in  emotions,  he  cultivated  as 
under  glasses  strange  and  mournful  pleasures  that  he 
would  not  willingly  let  die  just  at  present.  To  show 
any  forwardness  in  suggesting  a  modus  vivendi  to 
Grace  would  be  to  put  an  end  to  these  exotics.  To 
be  the  vassal  of  her  sweet  will  for  a  time — he  demanded 
no  more,  and  found  solace  in  the  contemplation  of  the 
soft  miseries  she  caused  him. 

Approaching  the  hill  with  a  mind  strung  to  these 
notions  Fitzpiers  discerned  a  gay  procession  of  people 
coming  down  the  way,  and  was  not  long  in  perceiving 
it  to  be  a  wedding-party.  Though  the  wind  was  keen 
the  women  were  in  light  attire,  and  the  flowered 
waistcoats  of  the  men  had  a  pleasing  vividness  of 
pattern.  Each  of  the  gentler  ones  clung  to  the  arm 
of  her  partner  so  tightly  as  to  have  with  him  one  step, 
rise,  swing,  gait,  almost  one  centre  of  gravity.  In  the 
buxom  bride  Fitzpiers  recognized  no  other  than  Suke 
Damson,  who  in  her  light  gown  looked  a  giantess ; 
the  small  husband  beside  her  he  saw  to  be  Tim 
Tangs. 

Fitzpiers  could  not  escape,  for  they  had  seen  him ; 

407 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

though  of  all  the  beauties  of  the  world  whom  he  did 
not  wish  to  meet  Suke  was  the  chief.  But  he  put  the 
best  face  on  the  matter  that  he  could  and  came  on, 
the  approaching  company  evidently  discussing  him 
and  his  separation  from  Mrs.  Fitzpiers.  As  the 
couples  closed  upon  him  he  expressed  his  congratula- 
tions. 

*  We  be  just  walking  round  the  parishes  to  show 
ourselves  a  bit,'  said  Tim.  *  First  we  het  across  to 
Great  Hintock,  then  back  to  here,  and  trom  here  we 
go  to  Revellers  Inn  and  Marsh  wood,  and  then  round 
by  the  cross  roads  home.  Home,  says  I,  but  it  won't 
be  that  long.     We  be  off  in  a  couple  of  months.* 

'  Indeed.     Where  to?' 

Tim  informed  him  that  they  were  going  to  New 
Zealand.  Not  but  that  he  would  have  been  contented 
with  Hintock,  but  his  wife  was  ambitious  and  wanted 
to  leave ;  so  he  had  given  way. 

*  Then  good-bye,'  said  Fitzpiers ;  *  I  may  not  see 
you  again.*  He  shook  hands  with  Tim  and  turned 
to  the  bride.  *  Good-bye,  Suke,*  he  said,  taking  her 
hand  also.  *  I  wish  you  and  your  husband  prosperity 
in  the  country  you  have  chosen.*  With  this  he  left 
them,  and  hastened  on  to  his  appointment. 

The  wedding-party  re-formed  and  resumed  march 
likewise.  But  in  restoring  his  arm  to  Suke,  Tim 
noticed  that  her  full  and  blooming  countenance  had 
undergone  a  change.  *  Hullo !  me  dear — what's  the 
matter  ?  *  said  Tim. 

*  Nothing  to  speak  o*,*  said  she.  But  to  give  the 
lie  to  her  assertion  she  was  seized  with  lachrymose 
twitches,  that  soon  produced  a  dribbling  face. 

*  How — what  the  devil's  this  about  ?  *  exclaimed  the 
bridegroom. 

'  She's  a  little  wee  bit  overcome,  poor  dear ! '  said 
the  first  bridesmaid,  unfolding  her  handkerchief  and 
wiping  Suke's  eyes. 

'  I  never  did  like  parting  from  people  !  *  said  Suke 
as  soon  as  she  could  speak. 

408 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

*  Why  him  in  particular  ? ' 

*  Well  —  he's  such  a  clever  doctor,  that  'tis  a 
thousand  pities  we  sha'n't  see  him  any  more ! 
There'll  be  no  such  clever  doctor  as  he  in  New 
Zealand,  if  I  should  be  wanting  one  in  a  few 
months ;  and  the  thought  o't  got  the  better  of  my 
feelings !  * 

They  walked  on,  but  Tim's  face  had  grown  rigid 
and  pale,  for  he  recalled  slight  circumstances  dis- 
regarded at  the  time  of  their  occurrence.  The 
former  boisterous  laughter  of  the  wedding-party  at 
the  groomsman's  jokes  was  heard  rising  between  the 
hedges  no  more. 

By  this  time  Fitzpiers  had  advanced  on  his  way 
to  the  hill,  where  he  saw  two  figures  emerging  from 
the  bank  on  the  right  hand.  These  were  the  expected 
ones,  Grace  and  Marty  South,  who  had  evidently  come 
there  by  a  short  and  secret  path  through  the  wood. 
Grace  was  muffled  up  in  her  winter  dress,  and  he 
thought  that  she  had  never  looked  so  seductive  as  at 
this  moment,  in  the  noontide,  bright,  but  heatless  sun, 
and  the  keen  wind,  and  the  purplish-grey  masses  of 
brushwood  around.  Fitzpiers  continued  to  regard  the 
nearing  picture,  till  at  length  their  glances  met  for  a 
moment,  when  she  demurely  sent  off  hers  at  a  tangent 
and  gave  him  the  benefit  of  her  three-quarter  face, 
while  with  courteous  completeness  of  conduct  he  lifted 
his  hat  in  a  large  arc.  Marty  dropped  behind  •  and 
when  Fitzpiers  held  out  his  hand  Gract^  roucheei  it 
with  her  fingers. 

*  I  have  agreed  to  be  here  mostly  because  I 
wanted  to  ask  you  something  important,'  said  Mrs. 
Fitzpiers,  her  intonation  modulating  in  a  direction 
that  she  had  not  quite  wished  it  to  take. 

*  I  am  most  attentive,*  said  her  husband.  *  Shall 
we  take  to  the  trees  for  privacy  ?  ' 

Grace  demurred,  and  Fitzpiers  gave  in,  and  they 
kept  outside  by  the  gate. 

At  any  rate,  she  would  take  his  arm  ?     This  also 

409 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

was  gravely  negatived,  the  refusal  being  audible  to 
Marty. 

*  Why  not  ?  *  he  inquired. 

*  O,  Mr.  Fitzpiers — how  can  you  ask  ?  ' 

*  Right,  right,'  said  he,  his  effusiveness  shrivelled  up. 
As  they  walked  on  she  returned  to  her  inquiry. 

*  It  is  about  a  matter  that  may  perhaps  be  unpleasant 
to  you.  But  I  think  I  need  not  consider  that  too 
carefully.* 

*  Not  at  all,'  said  Fitzpiers  heroically. 

She  then  took  him  back  to  the  time  of  poor 
Winterborne's  death,  and  related  the  precise  circum- 
stances amid  which  his  fatal  illness  had  come  upon 
him,  particularizing  the  dampness  of  the  shelter  to 
which  he  had  betaken  himself,  his  concealment  from 
her  of  the  hardships  that  he  was  undergoing,  all  that 
he  had  put  up  with,  all  that  he  had  done  for  her 
in  his  scrupulous  considerateness.  The  retrospect 
brought  her  to  tears  as  she  asked  him  if  he  thought 
that  the  sin  of  having  driven  him  to  his  death  was 
upon  her. 

Fitzpiers  could  hardly  help  showing  his  satisfaction 
at  what  her  narrative  indirectly  revealed,  the  actual 
harmlessness  of  an  escapade  with  her  lover  which  had 
at  first,  by  her  own  showing,  looked  so  grave,  and  he 
did  not  care  to  inquire  whether  that  harmlessness  had 
been  the  result  of  aim  or  of  accident.  With  regard  to 
her  question  he  declared  that  in  his  judgment  no 
human  being  could  answer  it.  He  thought  that  upon 
the  whole  the  balance  of  probabilities  turned  in  her 
favour.  Winterborne's  apparent  strength,  during  the 
last  months  of  his  life,  must  have  been  delusive.  It 
had  often  occurred  that  after  a  first  attack  of  that 
insidious  disease  a  person's  apparent  recovery  was  a 
physiological  mendacity. 

The  relief  which  came  to  Grace  lay  almost  as 
much  in  sharing  her  knowledge  of  the  particulars 
with  an  intelligent  mind  as  in  the  assurances  Fitzpiers 
gave  her.     *  Well,  then,  to  put  this  case  before  you 

410 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

and  obtain  your  professional  opinion  was  chiefly  why 
I  consented  to  come  here  to-day,'  said  she,  when  he 
had  reached  the  aforesaid  conclusion. 

'  For  no  other  reason  at  all  ? '  he  asked  ruefully. 

*  It  was  nearly  the  whole.' 

They  stood  and  looked  over  a  gate  at  twenty  or 
thirty  starlings  feeding  in  the  grass,  and  he  started 
the  talk  again  by  saying  in  a  low  voice,  *  And  yet  I 
love  you  more  than  ever  I  loved  you  in  my  life.' 

Grace  did  not  move  her  eyes  from  the  birds,  and 
folded  her  delicate  lips  as  if  to  keep  them  in  subjection. 

*  It  is  a  different  kind  of  love  altogether,'  said  he. 
*  Less  passionate  ;  more  profound.  It  has  nothing  to 
do  with  the  material  conditions  of  the  object  at  all ; 
much  to  do  with  her  character  and  goodness,  as 
revealed  by  closer  observation.  **  Love  talks  with 
better  knowledge,  and  knowledge  with  dearer  love."  ' 

*  That's  out  of  Measure  for  Measure'  said  she  slily. 

*  O  yes — I  meant  it  as  a  citation,'  blandly  replied 
Fitzpiers.  '  Well  then,  why  not  give  me  a  very  little 
bit  of  your  heart  again  ?  * 

The  crash  of  a  felled  tree  in  the  depths  of  the 
nearest  wood  recalled  the  past  at  that  moment,  and 
all  the  homely  faithfulness  of  Winterborne.  *  Don't 
ask  it !  My  heart  is  in  the  grave  with  Giles,'  she 
replied  staunchly. 

'  Mine  is  with  you — in  no  less  deep  a  grave,  I  fear, 
according  to  that.' 

*  I  am  very  sorry ;  but  it  cannot  be  helped.* 

*  How  can  you  be  sorry  for  me,  when  you  wilfully 
keep  open  the  grave  ? ' 

*  O  no — that's  not  so,'  returned  Grace  quickly  ;  and 
moved  to  go  away  from  him. 

*  But  dearest  Grace ! '  said  he.  *  You  have  con- 
descended to  come;  and  I  thought  from  it  that  perhaps 
when  I  had  passed  through  a  long  state  of  probation 
you  would  be  generous.  But  \{  there  can  be  no  hope 
of  our  getting  completely  reconciled,  treat  me  gently — 
wretch  though  I  am.' 

411 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

*  I  did  not  say  you  were  a  wretch,  nor  have  I  ever 
said  so.' 

*  But  you  have  such  a  contemptuous  way  of  looking 
at  me  that  I  fear  you  think  so.' 

Grace's  heart  struggled  between  the  wish  not  to 
be  harsh  and  the  fear  that  she  might  mislead  him. 

*  I  cannot  look  contemptuous  unless  I  feel  contempt,' 
she  said  evasively,  *  and  all  I  feel  is  lovelessness.' 

*  I   have    been   very   bad    I    know,'   he   returned. 

*  But  unless  you  can  really  love  me  again,  Grace,  I 
would  rather  go  away  from  you  for  ever.  I  don't 
want  you  to  receive  me  again  for  duty's  sake,  or 
anything  of  that  sort.  If  I  had  not  cared  more  for 
your  affection  and  forgiveness  than  my  own  personal 
comfort  I  should  never  have  come  back  here.  I  could 
have  obtained  a  practice  at  a  distance,  and  have  lived 
my  own  life  without  coldness  or  reproach.  But  I 
have  chosen  to  return  to  the  one  spot  on  earth  where 
my  name  is  tarnished — to  enter  the  house  of  a  man 
from  whom  I  have  had  worse  treatment  than  from  any 
other  man  alive — all  for  you  ! ' 

This  was  undeniably  true,  and  it  had  its  weight 
with  Grace,  who  began  to  look  as  if  she  thought  she 
had  been  shockingly  severe. 

*  Before  you  go,'  he  continued,  *  I  want  to  know 
your  pleasure  about  me  :  what  you  wish  me  to  do,  or 
not  to  do.' 

*  You  are  independent  of  me,  and  it  seems  a 
mockery  to  ask  that.  Far  be  it  from  me  to  advise. 
But  I  will  think  it  over.  I  rather  need  advice  myself 
than  stand  in  a  position  to  give  it.' 

*  Vou  don't  need  advice,  wisest,  dearest  woman 
that  ever  lived.     If  you  did  .  .  .* 

*  Would  you  give  it  to  me  ?  * 

*  Would  you  act  upon  what  I  gave  ? ' 

'That's  not  a  fair  inquiry,'  said  she,  smiling  despite 
her  gravity.  *  I  don't  mind  hearing  it — what  you 
do  really  think  the  most  correct  and  proper  course 
for  me.' 

412 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

•  It  IS  so  easy  for  me  to  say,  and  yet  I  dare  not,  for 
it  would  be  provoking  you  to  remonstrances.' 

Knowing,  of  course,  what  the  advice  would  be,  she 
did  not  press  him  further,  and  was  about  to  beckon 
Marty  forward  and  leave  him,  when  he  interrupted 
her  with,  *  O  1  one  moment,  dear  Grace — you  will 
meet  me  again  ?  ' 

She  eventually  agreed  to  see  him  that  day  fort- 
night. Fitzpiers  expostulated  at  the  interval,  but  the 
half-alarmed  earnestness  with  which  she  entreated  him 
not  to  come  sooner  made  him  say  hastily  that  he 
submitted  to  her  will — that  he  would  regard  her  as  a 
friend  only,  anxious  for  his  reform  and  well-being,  till 
such  time  as  she  might  allow  him  to  exceed  that 
privilege. 

All  this  was  to  assure  her ;  it  was  only  too  clear 
that  he  had  not  won  her  confidence  yet.  It  amazed 
Fitzpiers,  and  overthrew  all  his  deductions  from 
previous  experience,  to  find  that  this  girl,  though  she 
had  been  married  to  him,  could  yet  be  so  coy.  Not- 
withstanding a  certain  fascination  that  it  carried  with 
it  his  reflections  were  sombre  as  he  went  homeward ; 
he  saw  how  deep  had  been  his  offence  to  produce  so 
great  a  wariness  in  a  gentle  and  once  unsuspicious 
soul. 

He  was  himself  too  fastidious  to  care  to  coerce 
her.  To  be  an  object  of  misgiving  or  dislike  to 
a  woman  who  shared  his  home  was  what  he  could 
not  endure  the  thought  of  Life  as  it  stood  was  more 
tolerable. 

When  he  was  gone  Marty  joined  Mrs.  Fitzpiers. 
She  would  fain  have  consulted  Marty  on  the  question 
of  Platonic  relations  with  her  former  husband,  as  she 
preferred  to  regard  him.  But  Marty  showed  no  great 
interest  in  their  affairs,  so  Grace  said  nothing.  They 
came  onward  and  saw  Melbury  standing  at  the  scene 
of  the  felling  which  had  been  audible  to  them,  when, 
telling  Marty  that  she  wished  her  meeting  with  Mr. 
Fitzpiers  to  be  kept  private,  she  left  the  girl  to  join 

413 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

her  father.  At  any  rate  she  would  consult  him  on  the 
expediency  of  occasionally  seeing  her  husband. 

Her  father  was  cheerful,  and  walked  by  her  side  as 
he  had  done  in  earlier  days.  *  I  was  thinking  of  you 
when  you  came  up,'  he  said.  *  I  have  considered  that 
what  has  happened  is  for  the  best.  Since  your 
husband  is  gone  away,  and  seems  not  to  wish  to 
trouble  you,  why,  let  him  go,  and  drop  out  of  your  life. 
Many  women  are  worse  off.  You  can  live  here 
comfortably  enough,  and  he  can  emigrate,  or  do  what 
he  likes  for  his  good.  I  wouldn't  mind  sending  him 
the  further  sum  of  money  he  might  naturally  expect  to 
come  to  him,  so  that  you  may  not  be  bothered  with 
him  any  more.  He  could  hardly  have  gone  on  living 
here  without  speaking  to  me,  or  meeting  me  ;  and 
that  would  have  been  very  unpleasant  on  both  sides.' 

These  remarks  checked  her  intentions.  There 
was  a  sense  of  weakness  in  following  them  by  saying 
that  she  had  just  met  her  husband  by  appointment. 
*  Then  you  would  advise  me  not  to  communicate  with 
him  ? '  she  observed. 

*  I  shall  never  advise  'ee  again.  You  are  your  own 
mistress — do  as  you  like.  But  my  opinion  is  that  if 
you  don't  live  with  him  you  had  better  live  without 
him,  and  not  go  shilly-shallying  and  playing  bo-peep. 
You  sent  him  away  ;  and  now  he's  gone.  Very  well ; 
trouble  him  no  more.' 

Grace  felt  a  guiltiness — she  hardly  knew  why — and 
made  no  confession. 


XLVI 

The  woods  were  uninteresting,  and  Grace  stayed 
indoors  a  great  deal.  She  became  quite  a  student, 
reading  more  than  she  had  done  since  her  marriage. 
But  her  seclusion  was  always  broken  for  the  periodical 
visit  to  Winterborne's  grave  with  Marty,  which  was 
kept  up  with  pious  strictness  for  the  purpose  of 
putting  snowdrops,  primroses,  and  other  vernal  flowers 
thereon  as  they  came. 

One  afternoon  at  sunset  she  was  standing  under 
the  trees  just  at  the  back  of  her  father's  garden  which, 
like  the  rest  of  the  Hintock  inclosures,  abutted  into 
the  wood.  A  slight  footpath  led  along  here,  forming 
a  secret  way  to  either  of  the  houses  by  getting  through 
its  boundary  hedge.  Grace  was  about  to  adopt  this 
mode  of  entry  when  a  figure  approached  along  the 
path,  and  held  up  his  hand  to  detain  her.  It  was  her 
husband. 

'  I  am  delighted,'  he  said,  coming  up  out  of  breath  ; 
and  there  seemed  no  reason  to  doubt  his  words.  *  I 
saw  you  some  way  off — I  was  afraid  you  would  go  in 
before  I  could  reach  you.' 

'  It  is  a  week  before  the  time,'  said  she  reproach- 
fully.    '  I  said  a  fortnight  from  the  last  meeting.* 

*  My  dear,  you  don't  suppose  I  could  wait  a  fort- 
night without  trying  to  get  a  glimpse  of  you,  even 
though  you  had  declined  to  meet  me  1  Would  it  make 
you  angry  to  know  that  I  have  been  along  this  path 
at  dusk  three  or  four  times  since  our  last  meeting? 
Well,  how  are  you  ?  * 

415 


' THE  WOODLANDERS 

She  did  not  refuse  her  hand,  but  when  he  showed 
a  wish  to  retain  it  a  moment  longer  than  mere 
formality  required  she  made  it  smaller,  so  that  it 
slipped  away  from  him,  with  again  that  same  alarmed 
look  which  always  followed  his  attempts  in  this 
direction.  He  saw  that  she  was  not  yet  out  of  the 
elusive  mood ;  not  yet  to  be  treated  presumingly ; 
and  he  was  correspondingly  careful  to  tranquillize 
her. 

His  assertion  had  seemed  to  impress  her  some- 
what. *  I  had  no  idea  you  came  so  often,*  she  said. 
*  How  far  do  you  come  from  ? ' 

*  From  Sherton  Abbas  where  I  am  temporarily 
staying.  I  always  walk  the  distance  here,  for  if  I  hire 
people  will  know  that  I  come ;  and  my  success  with 
you  so  far  has  not  been  great  enough  to  justify  such 
overtness.  Now,  my  dear  one — as  I  mus^  call  you — 
I  put  it  to  you :  will  you  see  me  a  little  oftener  as  the 
spring  advances  ? ' 

Grace  lapsed  into  unwonted  sedateness  and  avoid- 
ing the  question,  said  :  '  I  wish  you  would  concentrate 
on  your  profession,  and  give  up  those  strange  studies 
that  used  to  distract  you  so  much.  I  am  sure  you 
would  get  on.' 

*  It  is  the  very  thing  I  am  doing.  I  was  going  to 
ask  you  to  hurn— or,  at  least,  get  rid  of — all  my 
philosophical  literature.  It  is  in  the  bookcases  in  your 
rooms.  The  fact  is  I  never  cared  much  for  abstruse 
studies.* 

*  I  am  so  glad  to  hear  you  say  that.  And  those 
other  books — those  piles  of  old  plays — what  good  are 
they  to  a  medical  man  ?  ' 

*  None  whatever  ! '  he  replied  cheerfully.  *  Sell 
them  at  Sherton  for  what  they  will  fetch.' 

*  And  those  dreadful  old  French  romances  with 
their  horrid  spellings  of  "filz"  and  "  ung  "  and  *'ilz" 
and  *'  mary  "  and  "  ma  foy  "  ?  * 

*  You  haven't  been  reading  them,  Grace  ?  ' 

*  O  no — I  just  looked  into  them,  that  was  all.* 

416 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

*  Make  a  bonfire  of  'em  directly  you  get  home.  I 
meant  to  do  it  myself.  I  can't  think  what  possessed 
me  ever  to  collect  them.  I  have  only  a  few  pro- 
fessional hand-books  now,  and  am  quite  a  practical 
man.  I  am  in  hopes  of  having  some  good  news  to 
tell  you  soon,  and  then  do  you  think  that  you  could — 
come  to  me  again  ?  * 

*  I  would  rather  you  did  not  press  me  on  that  just 
now,*  she  replied  with  some  feeling.  *  You  have  said 
you  mean  to  lead  a  new,  useful,  effectual  life ;  but  I 
should  like  to  see  you  put  it  in  practice  for  a  little 
while  before  you  address  that  query  to  me.  Besides 
— I  could  not  live  with  you !  * 

*  Why  not.?' 

Grace  was  silent  a  few  instants.  *  I  go  with 
Marty  to  Giles's  grave.  I  almost  worship  him.  We 
swore  we  would  show  him  that  devotion.  And  I 
mean  to  keep  it  up.' 

*  Well,  I  wouldn't  mind  that  at  all.  I  have  no  right 
to  expect  anything  else,  and  I  will  not  wish  you  to 
keep  away.  I  liked  the  man  as  well  as  any  I  ever 
knew.  In  short,  I  would  accompany  you  a  part  of 
the  way  to  the  grave,  and  smoke  a  cigar  on  the 
stile  while  I  waited  till  you  came  back.' 

*  Then  you  haven't  given  up  smoking  ?  * 

*  Well — ahem — no.  I  have  thought  of  doing  so, 
but ' 

His  extreme  complaisance  had  rather  disconcerted 
Grace,  and  the  question  about  smoking  had  been  to 
effect  a  diversion.  Presently  she  said  firmly,  and 
with  a  moisture  in  her  eye  that  he  could  not  see,  as 
her  mind  returned  to  poor  Giles's  *  frustrate  ghost ' : 
*  I  don't  like  you — to  speak  lightly  on  that  subject,  if 
you  did  speak  lightly.  To  be  frank  with  you — quite 
frank — I  think  of  him  as  my  betrothed  lover  still.  I 
cannot  help  it.  So  that  it  would  be  wrong  for  me 
to  join  you.' 

Fitzpiers  was  now  uneasy.  *  You  say  your  be- 
trothed lover  still,'  he  rejoined.    *  When,  then,  were 

417 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

you   betrothed  to   him,  or   engaged,  as  we  common 
people  say  ?  * 

*  When  you  were  away.* 
'  How  could  that  be  ?  ' 

Grace  would  have  avoided  this ;  but  her  natural 
candour  led  her  on.  *  It  was  when  I  was  under  the 
impression  that  my  marriage  with  you  was  about  to 
be  dissolved,  and  that  he  could  then  marry  me.  So  I 
encouraged  him  to  love  me/ 

Fitzpiers  winced  visibly ;  and  yet,  upon  the  whole, 
she  was  right  in  telling  it.  Indeed,  his  perception 
that  she  was  right  in  her  absolute  sincerity  kept  up 
his  affectionate  admiration  for  her  under  the  pain  of 
the  rebuff.  Time  had  been  when  the  avowal  that 
Grace  had  deliberately  taken  steps  to  replace  him 
would  have  brought  him  no  sorrow.  But  she  so  far 
dominated  him  now  that  he  could  not  bear  to  hear  her 
words,  although  the  object  of  her  high  regard  was 
no  more. 

*  It  is  rough  upon  me — that!'  he  said  bitterly. 
*  O,  Grace — I  did  not  know  you — tried  to  get  rid  of 
me !  I  suppose  it  is  of  no  use,  but  I  ask,  cannot 
you  hope  to — find  a  little  love  in  your  heart  for  me 
again  ? ' 

'If  I  could  I  would  oblige  you ;  but  I  fear  I 
cannot ! '  she  replied,  with  illogical  ruefulness.  *  And 
I  don't  see  why  you  should  mind  my  having  had  one 
lover  besides  yourself  in  my  life,  when  you  have  had 
so  many.* 

*  But  I  can  tell  you  honestly  that  I  love  you  better 
than  all  of  them  put  together,  and  that's  what  you 
will  not  tell  me ! ' 

'  I  am  sorry,  but  I  fear  I  cannot,'  she  said,  sighing 
again. 

*  I  wonder  if  you  ever  will  ?  '  He  looked  musingly 
into  her  indistinct  face  as  if  he  would  read  the  future 
there.     *  Now  have  pity,  and  tell  me  :  will  you  try  ?  * 

*  To  love  you  again  ?  * 

*  Yes  ;  if  you  can.'      I 

41S 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

*  I  don't  know  how  to  reply,'  she  answered,  her  em^ 
barrassment  proving  her  truth.  *  Will  you  promise  to 
leave  me  quite  free  as  to  seeing  you  or  not  seeing  you  ?' 

*  Certainly.  Have  I  given  any  ground  for  you  to 
doubt  my  first  promise  in  that  respect  ?  ' 

She  was  obliged  to  admit  that  he  had  not. 

*  Then  I  think  you  might  get  your  heart  out  of 
that  grave,'  said  he  with  playful  sadness.  *  It  has 
been  there  a  long  time.' 

She  faintly  shook  her  head,  but  said:  'I'll  try  to 
think  of  you  more — if  I  can.* 

With  this  Fitzpiers  was  compelled  to  be  satisfied, 
and  he  asked  her  when  she  would  meet  him  again. 

*  As  we  arranged — in  a  fortnight.' 

*  If  it  must  be  a  fortnight  it  must !  * 

*  This  time  at  least.  I'll  consider  by  the  day  I  see 
you  again  if  I  can  shorten  the  interval.' 

'  Well,  be  that  as  it  may,  I  shall  come  at  least  twice 
a  week  to  look  at  your  window.' 

*  You  must  do  as  you  like  about  that.  Good- 
night.' 

'Say  "husband."' 

She  seemed  almost  inclined  to  give  him  the  word  ; 
but  exclaiming,  '  No,  no ;  I  cannot,'  slipped  through 
the  garden  hedge  and  disappeared. 

Fitzpiers  did  not  exaggerate  when  he  told  her 
that  he  should  haunt  the  precincts  of  the  dwelling. 
But  his  persistence  in  this  course  did  not  result  in 
his  seeing  her  much  oftener  than  at  the  fortnightly 
interval  which  she  had  herself  marked  out  as  proper. 
At  these  times,  however,  she  punctually  appeared, 
and  as  the  spring  wore  on  the  meetings  were  kept  up, 
though  their  character  changed  but  little  with  the 
increase  in  their  number. 

The  small  garden  of  the  cottage  occupied  by  the 
Tangs  family — father,  son,  and  now  son's  wife — aligned 
with  the  larger  one  of  the  timber-dealer  at  its  upper 
end ;   and  when   young   Tim,  after   leaving   work  at 

419 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

Melbury's,  stood  at  dusk  in  the  little  bower  at  the 
corner  of  his  inclosure  to  smoke  a  pipe,  he  frequently 
observed  the  surgeon  pass  along  the  outside  track 
before- mentioned.  Fitzpiers  always  walked  loiter- 
ingly,  pensively,  looking  with  a  sharp  eye  into  the 
gardens  one  after  another  as  he  proceeded ;  for 
Fitzpiers  did  not  wish  to  leave  the  now  absorbing 
spot  too  quickly  after  travelling  so  far  to  reach  it ; 
hoping  always  for  a  glimpse  of  her  whom  he  passion- 
ately desired  to  take  to  his  arms  anew. 

Now  Tim  began  to  be  struck  with  these  loitering 
progresses  along  the  garden  boundaries  in  the  gloam- 
ing, and  wondered  what  they  boded.  It  was  naturally 
quite  out  of  his  power  to  divine  the  singular  senti- 
mental revival  in  Fitzpiers's  heart :  the  fineness  of 
tissue  which  could  take  a  deep,  emotional — almost 
also  an  artistic  —  pleasure  in  being  the  yearning 
innamorato  of  a  woman  he  once  had  deserted  would 
have  seemed  an  absurdity  to  the  young  sawyer.  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Fitzpiers  were  separated ;  therefore  the 
question  of  affection  as  between  them  was  settled. 
But  his  Suke  had,  since  that  meeting  on  their  marriage 
day,  repentantly  admitted,  to  the  urgency  of  his 
questioning,  a  good  deal  concerning  her  past  levities. 
Putting  all  things  together  he  could  hardly  avoid 
connecting  Fitzpiers's  mysterious  visits  to  this  spot 
with  Suke's  residence  under  his  roof  But  he  made 
himself  fairly  easy ;  the  vessel  in  which  they  were 
about  to  emigrate  sailed  that  month  ;  and  then  Suke 
would  be  out  of  Fitzpiers's  way  for  ever. 

The  interval  at  last  expired,  and  the  eve  of  their 
departure  arrived.  They  were  pausing  in  the  room  of 
the  cottage  allotted  to  them  by  Tim's  father,  after  a 
busy  day  of  preparation  which  left  them  weary.  In  a 
corner  stood  their  boxes,  crammed  and  corded,  their 
large  case  for  the  hold  having  already  been  sent  away. 
The  firelight  shone  upon  Suke's  plump  face  and 
form  as  she  stood  looking  into  it,  and  upon  the  face  of 
Tim  seated  in  a  corner,  and  upon  the  walls  of  his 

420 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

father's  house,  which  he   was  beholding   that    night 
almost  for  the  last  time. 

Tim  Tangs  was  not  happy.  This  scheme  of 
emigration  was  dividing  him  from  his  father — for  old 
Tangs  would  on  no  account  leave  Hintock — -and  had 
it  not  been  for  Suke's  reputation  and  his  own  dignity 
Tim  would  at  the  last  moment  have  abandoned  the 
project.  As  he  sat  in  the  back  part  of  the  room  he 
regarded  her  moodily,  and  the  fire,  and  the  boxes. 
One  thing  he  had  particularly  noticed  this  evening — 
she  was  very  restless,  fitful  in  her  actions,  unable  to 
remain  seated,  and  in  a  marked  degree  depressed. 

*  Sorry  that  you  be  going,  after  all,  Suke.-^'  he 
said. 

She  sighed  involuntarily.  *  I  don't  know  but  that 
I  be,'  she  answered.  *  'Tis  natural,  isn't  it,  when  one 
is  going  away  ?  ' 

*  But  you  wasn't  born  here  as  I  was.' 
*No.' 

*  There's  folk  left  behind  that  you'd  fain  have  with 
'ee,  I  reckon  ? ' 

*  Why  do  you  think  that  ? ' 

'I've  seen  things,  and  I've  heard  things;  and 
Suke,  I  say  'twill  be  a  good  move  for  me  to  get  'ee 
away.  I  don't  mind  his  leavings  abroad,  but  I  do 
mind  'em  at  home.' 

Suke's  face  was  not  changed  from  its  aspect  of 
listless  indifference  by  the  words.  She  answered 
nothing ;  and  shortly  after  he  went  out  for  his 
customary  pipe  of  tobacco  at  the  top  of  the  garden. 

The  restlessness  of  Suke  had  indeed  owed  its 
presence  to  the  gentleman  of  Tim's  suspicions,  but  in 
a  different  and — it  must  be  added  in  justice  to  her — 
more  innocent  sense  than  he  supposed,  judging  from 
former  doings.  She  had  accidentally  discovered  that 
Fitzpiers  was  in  the  habit  of  coming  secretly  once  or 
twice  a  week  to  Hintock,  and  knew  that  this  evening 
was  a  favourite  one  of  the  seven  for  his  journey.  As 
she  was  going  next  day  to  leave  the  country  Suke 

421 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

thought  there  could  be  no  great  harm  in  giving  way  to 
a  little  sentimentality  by  obtaining  a  glimpse  of  him 
quite  unknown  to  himself  or  to  anybody,  and  thus 
taking  a  silent  last  farewell.  Aware  that  Fitzpiers's 
time  for  passing  was  at  hand  she  thus  betrayed  her 
feeling.  No  sooner,  therefore,  had  Tim  left  the  room 
than  she  let  herself  noiselessly  out  of  the  house  and 
hastened  to  the  corner  of  the  garden,  whence  she 
could  witness  the  surgeon's  transit  across  the  scene,  if 
he  had  not  already  gone  by. 

Her  light  cotton  dress  was  visible  to  Tim  lounging 
in  the  arbour  of  the  opposite  corner,  though  he  was 
hidden  from  her.  He  saw  her  stealthily  climb  into 
the  hedge,  and  so  ensconce  herself  there  that  nobody 
could  have  the  least  doubt  her  purpose  was  to  watch 
unseen  for  a  passer-by. 

He  went  across  to  the  spot  and  stood  behind  her. 
Suke  started,  having  in  her  blundering  way  forgotten 
that  he  might  be  near.  She  at  once  descended  from 
the  hedge. 

*  So  he's  coming  to-night,'  said  Tim  laconically. 
'And  we  be  always  anxious  to  see  our  dears.' 

*  He  w  coming  to-night,'  she  replied  with  defiance. 
*  And  we  be  anxious  for  our  dears  ! ' 

*  Then  will  you  step  indoors,  where  your  dear  will 
soon  jine  'ee."*     We've  to  mouster  by  half-past  three 
to-morrow,  and  if  we  don't  get  to  bed  by  eight  at     v 
latest  our  faces  will  be  as  long  as  clock-cases  all  day.'      / 

She  hesitated  for  a  minute  but  ultimately  obeyed, 
going  slowly  down  the  garden  to  the  house,  where  he 
heard  the  door-latch  click  behind  her. 

Tim  was  incensed  beyond  measure.  His  marriage 
had  so  far  been  a  total  failure,  a  source  of  bitter 
regret  ;  and  the  only  course  for  improving  his  case, 
that  of  leaving  the  country,  was  a  sorry,  and  possibly 
might  not  be  a  very  effectual  one.  Do  what  he 
would  his  domestic  sky  was  likely  to  be  overcast  to 
the  end  of  the  day.  Thus  he  brooded,  and  his 
resentment  gathered  force.     He  craved  a  means  of 

422 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

striking  one  blow  back  at  the  cause  of  his  cheerless 
plight  while  he  was  still  on  the  scene  of  his  dis- 
comfiture. For  some  minutes  no  method  suggested 
itself,  and  then  he  had  an  idea. 

Coming  to  a  sudden  resolution  he  hastened  along 
the  garden,  and  entered  the  one  attached  to  the  next 
cottage,  which  had  formerly  been  the  dwelling  of  a 
gamekeeper.  Tim  descended  the  path  to  the  back  of 
the  house,  where  only  an  old  woman  lived  at  present, 
and  reaching  the  wall  he  stopped.  Owing  to  the 
slope  of  the  ground  the  roof-eaves  of  the  linhay  were 
here  within  touch,  and  he  thrust  his  arm  up  under 
them,  feeling  about  in  the  space  on  the  top  of  the 
wall  plate. 

*  Ah,  I  thought  my  memory  didn't  deceive  me !  * 
he  lipped  silently. 

With  some  exertion  he  drew  down  a  cobwebbed 
object  curiously  framed  in  iron,  which  clanked  as  he 
moved  it.  It  was  about  three  feet  in  length  and  half 
as  wide.  Tim  contemplated  it  as  well  as  he  could  in 
the  dying  light  of  day,  and  raked  off  the  cobwebs 
with  his  hand. 

*  That  will  spoil  his  pretty  shins  for  n,  I  reckon  1  * 
he  said. 

It  was  a  man-trap. 


XLVII 

Were  the  inventors  of  automatic  machines  to  be 
ranged  according  to  the  excellence  of  their  devices 
for  producing  sound  artistic  torture,  the  creator  of 
the  man-trap  would  occupy  a  very  respectable,  if  not  a 
very  high,  place. 

It  should  rather,  however,  be  said,  the  inventor  of 
the  particular  form  of  man-trap  of  which  this  found  in 
the  keeper's  outhouse  was  a  specimen.  For  there 
were  other  shapes  and  other  sizes,  instruments  which, 
if  placed  in  a  row  beside  one  of  the  type  disinterred 
by  Tim,  would  have  worn  the  subordinate  aspect 
of  the  bears,  wild  boars,  or  wolves  in  a  travelling 
menagerie  as  compared  with  the  leading  lion  or  tiger. 
In  short,  though  many  varieties  had  been  in  use 
during  those  centuries  which  we  are  accustomed  to 
look  back  upon  as  the  true  and  only  period  of  merry 
England — in  the  rural  districts  more  especially — and 
onward  down  to  the  third  decade  of  the  nineteenth 
century,  this  model  had  borne  the  palm,  and  had  been 
most  usually  followed  when  the  orchards  and  estates 
required  new  ones. 

There  had  been  the  toothless  variety  used  by  the 
softer-hearted  landlords — quite  contemptible  in  their 
clemency.  The  jaws  of  these  resembled  the  jaws  of 
an  old  woman  to  whom  time  has  left  nothing  but 
gums.  There  were  also  the  intermediate  or  half- 
toothed  sorts,  probably  devised  by  the  middle-natured 
squires,  or  those  under  the  influence  of  their  wives : 
two  inches  of  mercy,  two  inches  of  cruelty,  two  inches 

424 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

of  mere  nip,  two  inches  of  probe,  and  so  on,  through 
the  whole  extent  of  the  jaws.  There  were  also,  as  a 
class  apart,  the  bruisers,  which  did  not  lacerate  the 
flesh,  but  only  crushed  the  bone. 

The  sight  of  one  of  these  gins,  when  set,  produced 
a  vivid  impression  that  it  was  endowed  with  life.  It 
exhibited  the  combined  aspects  of  a  shark,  a  crocodile, 
and  a  scorpion.  Each  tooth  was  in  the  form  of  a 
tapering  spine  two  and  a  quarter  inches  long,  which, 
when  the  jaws  were  closed,  stood  in  alternation  from 
this  side  and  from  that.  When  they  were  open  the 
two  halves  formed  a  complete  circle  between  two  and 
three  feet  in  diameter,  the  plate  or  treading-place  in 
the  midst  being  about  a  foot  square,  while  from 
beneath  extended  in  opposite  directions  the  soul  of 
the  apparatus,  the  pair  of  springs,  each  one  having 
been  in  its  prime  of  a  stiffness  to  render  necessary  a 
lever  or  the  whole  weight  cf  the  body  when  forcing  it 
down,  though  rust  had  weakened  it  somewhat  now. 

There  were  men  at  this  time  still  living  at  Hintock 
who  remembered  when  the  gin  and  others  like  it  were 
in  use.  Tim  Tangs's  great-uncle  had  endured  a  night 
of  six  hours  in  this  very  trap,  which  lamed  him  for  life. 
Once  a  keeper  of  Hintock  woods  set  it  on  the  track  of 
a  poacher,  and  afterwards  coming  back  that  way  for- 
getful of  what  he  had  done  walked  into  it  himself. 
The  wound  brought  on  lockjaw,  of  which  he  died. 
This  event  occurred  during  the  thirties,  and  by  the  year 
1840  the  use  of  such  implements  was  well-nigh  dis- 
continued in  the  neighbourhood.  But  being  made 
entirely  of  iron  they  by  no  means  disappeared,  and  in 
almost  every  village  one  could  be  found  in  some  nook 
or  corner  as  readily  as  this  was  found  by  Tim.  It  had 
indeed  been  a  fearful  amusement  of  Tim  and  other 
Hintock  lads — especially  those  who  had  a  dim  sense  of 
becoming  renowned  poachers  when  they  reached  their 
prime — to  drag  out  this  trap  from  its  hiding,  set  it, 
and  throw  it  with  billets  of  wood,  which  were  pene- 
trated by  the  teeth  to  the  depth  of  near  an  inch. 

425 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

As  soon  as  he  had  examined  the  trap  and  found 
that  the  hinges  and  springs  were  fairly  perfect,  he 
shouldered  it  without  more  ado  and  returned  with  his 
burden  to  his  own  garden,  passing  on  through  the 
hedge  to  the  path  immediately  outside  the  boundary. 
Here  by  the  help  of  a  stout  stake  he  set  the  trap,  and 
laid  it  carefully  behind  a  bush  while  he  went  forward 
to  reconnoitre.  As  has  been  stated,  nobody  passed 
this  way  for  days  together  sometimes ;  but  there  was 
just  a  possibility  that  some  other  pedestrian  than  the 
one  in  request  might  arrive,  and  it  behoved  Tim  to 
be  careful  as  to  the  identity  of  his  victim. 

Going  about  a  hundred  yards  along  the  rising 
ground  to  the  right  he  reached  a  ridge  whereon  a  large 
and  thick  holly  grew.  Beyond  this  for  some  distance 
the  wood  was  more  open,  and  the  course  which  Fitz- 
piers  must  pursue  to  reach  the  point,  if  he  came 
to-night,  was  visible  a  long  way  forward. 

For  some  time  there  was  no  sign  of  him  or  of  any- 
body. Then  there  shaped  itself  a  spot  out  of  the  dim 
mid-distance,  between  the  masses  of  brushwood  on 
each  hand.  It  enlarged,  and  Tim  could  hear  the 
brushing  of  feet  over  the  tufts  of  sour  grass.  The 
airy  gait  revealed  Fitzpiers  even  before  his  exact 
outline  could  be  seen. 

Tim  Tangs  turned  about  and  ran  down  the 
opposite  side  of  the  hill  till  he  was  again  at  the  head 
of  his  own  garden.  It  was  the  work  of  a  few  moments 
to  drag  out  the  man-trap  very  gently — that  the  plate 
might  not  be  disturbed  sufficiently  to  throw  it — to  a 
space  between  a  pair  of  young  oaks  which,  rooted  in 
contiguity,  grew  apart  upward,  forming  a  V-shaped 
opening  between  ;  and,  being  backed  up  by  bushes, 
left  this  as  the  only  course  for  a  foot-passenger.  In 
it  he  laid  the  trap  with  the  same  gentleness  of  handling, 
locked  the  chain  round  one  of  the  trees,  and  finally 
slid  back  the  guard  which  was  placed  to  keep  the  gin 
from  accidentally  catching  the  arms  of  him  who  set 
it,  or,  to    use  the  local  and  better  word,   'toiled'  it, 

426 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

Having  completed  these  arrangements  Tim  sprang 
through  the  adjoining  hedge  of  his  father's  garden,  ran 
down  the  path,  and  softly  entered  the  house. 

Obedient  to  his  order  Suke  had  gone  to  bed  ;  and 
as  soon  as  he  had  bolted  the  door  Tim  unlaced  and 
kicked  off  his  boots  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs  and  retired 
likewise,  without  lighting  a  candle.  His  object  seemed 
to  be  to  undress  as  soon  as  possible.  Before,  how- 
ever, he  had  completed  the  operation  a  long  cry 
resounded  without — penetrating,  but  indescribable. 

*  What's  that  ?  '  said  Suke,  starting  up  in  bed. 

*  Sounds  as  if  somebody  had  caught  a  hare  in 
his  gin.' 

'  O  no,'  said  she.  *  It  was  not  a  hare,  'twas  louder. 
Hark!' 

*  Do  'ee  get  to  sleep,'  said  Tim.  '  How  be  you 
going  to  wake  at  half-past  three  else  ?  * 

She  lay  down  and  was  silent.  Tim  stealthily 
opened  the  window  and  listened.  Above  the  low 
harmonies  produced  by  the  instrumentation  of  the 
various  species  of  tree  around  the  premises  he  could 
hear  the  twitching  of  a  chain  from  the  spot  whereon 
he  had  set  the  man-trap.  But  further  human  sound 
there  was  none. 

Tim  was  puzzled.  In  the  haste  of  his  project  he 
had  not  calculated  upon  a  cry ;  but  if  one,  why  not 
more  ?  He  soon  ceased  to  essay  an  answer,  for  Hin- 
tock  was  dead  to  him  already.  In  half-a-dozen  hours 
he  would  be  out  of  its  precincts  for  life,  on  his  way  to 
the  antipodes.     He  closed  the  window  and  lay  down. 

The  hour  which  had  brought  these  movements  of 
Tim  to  birth  had  been  operating  actively  elsewhere. 
Awaiting  in  her  father's  house  the  minute  of  her 
appointment  with  her  husband,  Grace  Fitzplers  de- 
liberated on  many  things.  Should  she  inform  her 
father  before  going  out  that  the  estrangement  of 
herself  and  Edred  was  not  so  complete  as  he  had 
imagined  and  deemed  desirable  for  her  happiness.'* 

427 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

If  she  did  so  she  must  in  some  measure  become  the 
apologist  of  her  husband,  and  she  was  not  prepared 
to  go  so  far. 

As  for  him,  he  kept  her  in  a  mood  of  considerate 
gravity.  He  certainly  had  changed.  He  had  at  his 
worst  times  always  been  gentle  in  his  manner  towards 
her.  Could  it  be  that  she  might  make  of  him  a  true 
and  worthy  husband  yet  ?  She  had  married  him ; 
there  was  no  getting  over  that ;  and  ought  she  any 
longer  to  keep  him  at  a  distance?  His  suave 
deference  to  her  lightest  whim  on  the  question  of 
his  comings  and  goings,  when  as  her  lawful  husband 
he  might  show  a  little  insistence,  was  a  trait  in  his 
character  as  unexpected  as  it  was  engaging.  If  she 
had  been  his  empress,  and  he  her  thrall,  he  could  not 
have  exhibited  a  more  sensitive  care  to  avoid  intrud- 
ing upon  her  against  her  will. 

I  Impelled  by  a  remembrance  she  took  down  a 
prayer-book  and  turned  to  the  marriage -service. 
Reading  it  slowly  through  she  became  quite  appalled 
at  her  recent  off-handedness,  when  she  rediscovered 
what  awfully  solemn  promises  she  had  made  him  at 
Hintock  chancel  steps  not  so  very  long  ago.  She 
became  lost  in  long  ponderings  on  how  far  a  person's 
conscience  might  be  bound  by  vows  made  without 
at  the  time  a  full  recognition  of  their  force.  That 
particular  sentence,  beginning,  *Whom  God  hath 
joined  together,'  was  a  staggerer  for  a  gentle  woman 
of  strong  devotional  sentiment.  She  wondered 
whether  God  really  did  join  them  together.  Before 
she  had  done  deliberating  the  time  of  her  engagement 
drew  ntsar,  and  she  went  out  of  the  house  almost  at 
the  moment  that  Tim  Tangs  retired  to  his  own. 

The  position  of  things  at  that  critical  juncture  was 
as  follows.  Two  hundred  yards  to  the  right  of  the 
upper  end  of  Tangs's  garden  Fitzpiers  was  still  ad- 
vancing, having  now  nearly  reached  the  summit  of 
the  wood-clothed  ridge,  the  path  being  the  actual  one 
which  further  on  passed  between  the  two  young  oaks. 

428 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

Thus  far  it  was  according  to  Tim's  conjecture.  But 
about  two  hundred  yards  to  the  left,  or  rather  less, 
was  arising  a  condition  which  he  had  not  divined,  the 
emergence  of  Grace  as  aforesaid  from  the  upper 
corner  of  her  father's  garden  with  the  view  of  meeting 
Tim's  intended  victim.  Midway  between  husband 
and  wife  was  the  diabolical  trap,  silent,  open,  ready. 

Fitzpiers's  walk  that  night  had  been  cheerful,  for 
he  was  convinced  that  the  slow  and  gentle  method 
he  had  adopted  was  promising  success.  The  very 
restraint  that  he  was  obliged  to  exercise  upon  himself, 
so  as  not  to  kill  the  delicate  bud  of  returning  con- 
fidence, fed  his  flame.  He  walked  so  much  more 
rapidly  than  Grace  that  if  they  continued  advancing 
as  they  had  begun,  he  would  reach  the  trap  a  good 
half  minute  before  she  could  reach  the  same  spot. 
But  here  a  new  circumstance  came  in  :  to  escape  the 
unpleasantness  of  being  watched  or  listened  to  by 
lurkers — naturally  curious  by  reason  of  their  strained 
relations — they  had  arranged  that  their  meeting  for 
to-night  should  be  at  the  holm-tree  on  the  ridge 
above-named.  So  soon,  accordingly,  as  Fitzpiers 
reached  the  tree  he  stood  still  to  await  her. 

He  had  not  paused  under  the  prickly  foliage  more 
than  two  minutes  when  he  thought  he  heard  a  scream 
from  the  other  side  of  the  ridge.  Fitzpiers  wondered 
what  it  could  mean  ;  but  such  wind  as  there  was  just 
now  blew  in  an  adverse  direction,  and  his  mood  was 
light.  He  set  down  the  origin  of  the  sound  to  one  of 
the  superstitious  freaks  or  frolicsome  scrimmages  be- 
tween sweethearts  that  still  survived  in  Hintock  from 
old-English  times  ;  and  waited  on  where  he  stood  till 
ten  minutes  had  passed.  Feeling  then  a  little  uneasy 
his  mind  reverted  to  the  scream  ;  and  he  went  forward 
over  the  summit  and  down  the  embowered  incline  till 
he  reached  the  pair  of  sister  oaks  with  the  narrow 
opening  between  them. 

Fitzpiers  stumbled  and  all  but  fell.  Stretching 
down  his  hand  to  ascertain  the  obstruction  it  came  in 

429 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

contact  with  a  confused  mass  of  silken  drapery  and 
ironwork  that  conveyed  absolutely  no  explanatory 
idea  to  his  mind  at  all.  It  was  but  the  work  of  a 
moment  to  strike  a  match ;  and  then  he  saw  a  sight 
which  congealed  his  blood. 

The  man-trap  was  thrown  ;  and  between  its  jaws 
was  part  of  a  woman's  clothing — a  patterned  silk  skirt 
— gripped  with  such  violence  that  the  iron  teeth  had 
passed  through  it,  skewering  its  tissue  in  a  score  of 
places.  He  immediately  recognized  the  skirt  as  that 
of  one  of  his  wife's  gowns — the  gown  that  she  had 
worn  when  she  met  him  on  the  very  last  occasion. 

Fitzpiers  had  often  studied  the  effect  of  these 
instruments  when  examining  the  collection  at  Hintock 
House,  and  the  conception  instantly  flashed  through 
him  that  Grace  had  been  caught,  taken  out  mangled 
by  some  chance  passer,  and  carried  home,  some  of 
her  clothes  being  left  behind  in  the  difficulty  of 
getting  her  free.  The  shock  of  this  conviction, 
striking  into  the  very  current  of  high  hope,  was  so 
great  that  he  cried  out  like  one  in  corporal  agony,  and 
in  his  misery  bowed  himself  down  to  the  ground. 

Of  all  the  degrees  and  qualities  of  punishment 
that  Fitzpiers  had  undergone  since  his  sins  against 
Grace  first  began,  not  any  even  approximated  in 
intensity  to  this.  *  O,  my  own — my  darling  !  O,  cruel 
Heaven — it  is  too  much  this ! '  he  cried,  writhing  and 
rocking  himself  over  the  sorry  accessories  of  her  he 
deplored. 

The  voice  of  his  distress  was  sufficiently  loud  to 
be  audible  to  any  one  who  might  have  been  there  to 
hear  it ;  and  one  there  was.  Right  and  left  of  the 
narrow  pass  between  the  oaks  were  dense  bushes ; 
and  now  from  behind  these  a  female  figure  glided, 
whose  appearance  even  in  the  gloom  was,  though 
graceful  in  outline,  noticeably  strange. 

She  was  white  up  to  the  waist,  and  figured  above. 
She  was,  in  short,  Grace,  his  wife,  lacking  the  portion 
of  her  dress  which  the  gin  retained. 

430 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

*  Don't  be  grieved  about  me — don't,  dear  Edred ! ' 
she  exclaimed,  rushing  up  and  bending  over  him.  *  I 
am  not  hurt  a  bit !  I  was  coming  on  to  find  you  after 
I  had  released  myself,  but  I  heard  footsteps  ;  and  I 
hid  away  because  I  was  without  some  of  my  clothing, 
and  I  did  not  know  who  the  person  might  be.' 

Fitzpiers  had  sprung  to  his  feet,  and  his  next  act 
was  no  less  unpremeditated  by  him  than  it  was  irre- 
sistible by  her,  and  would  have  been  so  by  any  woman 
not  of  Amazonian  strength.  He  clasped  his  arms 
completely  round  her,  pressed  her  to  his  breast  and 
kissed  her  passionately. 

*  You  are  not  dead  ! — you  are  not  hurt !  Thank 
God — thank  God ! '  he  said,  almost  sobbing  in  his 
delight  and  relief  from  the  horror  of  his  apprehension. 
*  Grace,  my  wife,  my  love,  how  is  this — what  has 
happened  ? ' 

*  I  was  coming  on  to  you,'  she  said  as  distinctly 
as  she  could  in  the  half-smothered  state  of  her  face 
against  his.  *  I  was  trying  to  be  as  punctual  as 
possible,  and  as  I  had  started  a  minute  late  I  ran 
along  the  path  very  swiftly — fortunately  for  myself. 
Just  when  I  had  passed  between  these  trees  I  felt 
something  clutch  at  my  dress  from  behind  with  a 
noise,  and  the  next  moment  I  was  pulled  backwards 
by  it,  and  fell  to  the  ground.  I  screamed  with  terror, 
thinking  it  was  a  man  lying  down  there  to  murder 
me,  but  the  next  moment  I  discovered  it  was  iron, 
and  that  my  clothes  were  caught  in  a  trap.  I  pulled 
this  way  and  that,  but  the  thing  would  not  let  go, 
drag  it  as  I  would,  and  I  did  not  know  what  to  do.  I 
did  not  want  to  alarm  my  father  or  anybody,  as  I 
wished  nobody  to  know  of  these  meetings  with  you, 
so  I  could  think  of  no  other  plan  than  slipping  off  my 
skirt,  meaning  to  run  on  and  tell  you  what  a  strange 
accident  had  happened  to  me.  But  when  I  had  just 
freed  myself  by  leaving  the  dress  behind  I  heard 
steps,  and  not  being  sure  it  was  you  I  did  not  like  to 
be  seen  in  such  a  pickle,  so  I  hid  away.' 

431 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

*  It  was  only  your  speed  that  saved  you  !  One  or 
both  of  your  legs  would  have  been  broken  if  you  had 
come  at  ordinary  walking  pace.' 

*  Or  yours,  if  you  had  got  here  first,'  said  she,  be- 
ginning to  realize  the  whole  ghastliness  of  the  possi- 
bility, or  what  seemed  a  possibility  to  them,  though 
whether  the  old  springs  would  have  done  quite  so 
much  mischief  may  be  doubted.  *  O,  Edred,  there 
has  been  an  Eye  watching  over  us  to-night,  and  we 
should  be  thankful  indeed  ! ' 

He  continued  to  press  his  face  to  hers.  *  You  are 
mine — mine  again  now  ! ' 

She  owned  that  she  supposed  she  was.  *  I  heard 
what  you  said  when  you  thought  I  was  injured,'  she 
went  on  shyly,  *and  I  know  that  a  man  who  could 
suffer  as  you  were  suffering  must  have  a  tender  regard 
for  me.     But  how  does  this  awful  thing  come  here  ?  ' 

*  I  suppose  it  has  something  to  do  with  poachers.* 
Fitzpiers  was  still  so  shaken  by  the  sense  of  her 
danger  that  he  was  obliged  to  sit  awhile,  and  it  was 
not  until  Grace  said,  *  If  I  could  only  get  my  skirt 
out  nobody  would  know  anything  about  it,*  that  he 
bestirred  himself. 

By  their  united  efforts,  each  standing  on  one  of 
the  springs  of  the  trap,  they  pressed  them  down 
sufficiently  to  insert  across  the  jaws  a  billet  which 
they  dragged  from  a  faggot  near  at  hand,  and  it  was 
then  possible  to  extract  the  silk  mouthful  from  the 
monster's  bite,  creased  and  pierced  with  small  holes, 
but  not  torn.  Fitzpiers  assisted  her  to  put  it  on 
again  ;  and  when  her  customary  contours  were  thus 
restored  they  walked  on  together,  Grace  taking  his 
arm  till  he  effected  an  improvement  by  passing  it 
round  her  waist. 

The  ice  having  been  broken  in  this  unexpected 
manner,  she  made  no  further  attempt  at  reserve.  '  I 
would  ask  you  to  come  into  the  house,'  she  said,  *  but 
my  meetings  with  you  have  been  kept  secret  from  my 
father,  and  I  should  like  to  prepare  him.' 

432 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

•  Never  mind,  dearest.  I  could  not  very  well  have 
accepted  the  invitation.  I  shall  never  live  here  again 
— as  much  for  your  sake  as  for  mine.  I  have  news  to 
tell  you  on  this  very  point,  but  my  alarm  had  put  it 
out  of  my  head.  I  have  bought  a  practice,  or  rather 
a  partnership,  in  the  Midlands,  and  I  must  go  there 
in  a  week  to  take  up  permanent  residence.  My  poor 
old  great-aunt  died  about  eight  months  ago,  and  left 
me  enough  to  do  this.  I  have  taken  a  little  furnished 
house  for  a  time,  till  we  can  get  one  of  our  own.' 

He  described  the  place,  and  the  surroundings,  and 
the  view  from  the  windows ;  and  Grace  became  much 
interested.  *  But  why  are  you  not  there  now  ? '  she 
said. 

*  Because  I  cannot  tear  myself  away  from  here  till 
I  have  your  promise.  Now,  darling,  you  will  accom- 
pany me  there  soon — will  you  not.f^  To-night  has 
settled  that  ? ' 

Grace's  tremblings  had  gone  off,  and  she  did  not 
say  nay.     They  went  on  together. 

The  adventure,  and  the  emotions  consequent  upon 
the  reunion  which  that  event  had  forced  on,  combined 
to  render  Grace  oblivious  of  the  direction  of  their 
desultory  ramble,  till  she  noticed  they  were  in  an 
encircled  glade  in  the  densest  part  of  the  wood.  The 
moon,  that  had  imperceptibly  added  her  rays  to  the 
scene,  shone  almost  vertically.  It  was  an  exception- 
ally soft,  balmy  evening  for  the  time  of  year,  which 
was  just  that  transient  period  in  the  May  month  when 
beech  trees  have  suddenly  unfolded  large  limp  young 
leaves  of  the  softness  of  butterflies'  wings.  Boughs 
bearing  such  leaves  hung  low  around  and  completely 
inclosed  them,  so  that  it  was  as  if  they  were  in  a  great 
green  vase,  which  had  moss  for  its  bottom  dnd  leaf 
sides.     Here  they  sat  down. 

The  clouds  having  been  packed  in  the  west  that 
evening  so  as  to  retain  the  departing  glare  a  long 
while,  the  hour  had  seemed  much  earlier  than  it  was. 
But  suddenly  the  question  of  time  occurred  to  her. 

433 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

*  I  must  go  back,'  she  said,  springing  up ;  and 
without  further  delay  they  set  their  faces  towards 
Hintock.  As  they  walked  he  examined  his  watch  by 
the  aid  of  the  now  strong  moonlight. 

*  By  the  gods,  I  think  I  have  lost  my  train !  *  said 
Fitzpiers. 

'  Dear  me — whereabouts  are  we  ? '  said  she. 
*Two  miles  in  the  direction  of  Sherton.' 

*  Then  do  you  hasten  on,  Edred.  I  am  not  in  the 
least  afraid.  I  recognize  now  the  part  of  the  wood 
we  are  in,  and  I  can  find  my  way  back  quite  easily. 
I'll  tell  my  father  that  we  have  made  it  up.  I  wish  L 
had  not  kept  our  meetings  so  private,  for  it  may  vex 
him  a  little  to  know  I  have  been  seeing  you.  He  is 
getting  old  and  irritable,  that  was  why  I  did  not. 
Good-bye.' 

*  But,  as  I  must  stay  at  the  Earl  of  Wessex  to- 
night, for  I  cannot  possibly  catch  the  train,  I  think  it 
would  be  safer  for  you  to  let  me  take  care  of  you.' 

*  But  what  will  my  father  think  has  become  of  me ! 
He  does  not  know  in  the  least  where  I  am — he  thinks 
I  only  went  into  the  garden  for  a  few  minutes.' 

*  He  will  surely  guess — somebody  has  seen  me  for 
certain.     I'll  go  all  the  way  back  with  you  to-morrow.* 

'But  that  newly-done-up  place  —  the  Earl  of 
Wessex ! ' 

*  If  you  are  so  very  particular  about  the  publicity  I 
will  stay  at  a  little  quiet  one.' 

*  O  no — it  is  not  that  I  am  particular — but  I 
haven't  a  brush  or  comb  or  anything  I ' 


XLVIII 

All  the  evening  Melbury  had  been  coming  to  his 
door  saying,  *  I  wonder  where  in  the  world  that  girl 
is !  Never  in  all  my  born  days  did  I  know  her  bide 
out  like  this  !  She  surely  said  she  was  going  into  the 
garden  to  get  some  parsley.' 

Melbury  searched  the  garden,  the  outbuildings, 
and  the  orchard,  but  could  find  no  trace  of  her,  and 
then  he  made  inquiries  at  the  cottages  of  such  of  his 
workmen  as  had  not  gone  to  bed,  avoiding  Tangs's 
because  he  knew  the  young  people  were  to  rise  early 
to  leave.  In  these  inquiries  one  of  the  men's  wives 
somewhat  incautiously  let  out  the  fact  that  she  had 
heard  a  scream  in  the  wood,  though  from  which 
direction  she  could  not  say. 

This  set  Melbury's  fears  on  end.  He  told  the 
men  to  light  lanterns,  and  headed  by  himself  they 
started,  Creedle  following  at  the  last  moment  with 
a  bundle  of  grapnels  and  ropes  which  he  could  not  be 
persuaded  to  leave  behind,  and  the  company  being 
joined  by  the  hollow-turner  and  Cawtree  as  they 
went  along. 

They  explored  the  precincts  of  the  village,  and  in 
a  short  time  lighted  upon  the  man-trap.  Its  discovery 
simply  added  an  item  of  fact  without  helping  their 
conjectures ;  but  Melbury's  indefinite  alarm  was 
greatly  increased  when,  holding  a  candle  to  the 
ground,  he  saw  in  the  teeth  of  the  instrument  some 
frayings  from  Grace's  clothing.  No  intelligence  of 
any  kind  was   gained   till   they  met  a  woodman  of 

435 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

Delborough,  who  said  that  he  had  seen  a  lady  answer- 
ing to  the  description  her  father  gave  of  Grace, 
walking  through  the  wood  on  a  gentleman's  arm  in 
the  direction  of  Sherton. 

*  Was  he  supporting  her  ?  *  said  Melbury. 

*  Well — rather,'  said  the  man. 
'  Did  she  walk  lame  ? ' 

*  Well,  'tis  true  her  head  hung  over  towards  him  a 
bit.* 

Creedle  groaned  tragically. 

Melbury,  not  suspecting  the  presence  of  Fitzpiers, 
coupled  this  account  with  the  man-trap  and  the 
scream ;  he  could  not  understand  what  it  all  meant, 
but  the  sinister  event  of  the  trap  made  him  follow  on. 
Accordingly,  they  bore  away  towards  the  town  shout- 
ing as  they  went,  and  in  due  course  emerged  upon 
the  highway. 

N earing  Sherton  Abbas  the  previous  information 
was  confirmed  by  other  strollers,  though  the  gentle- 
man's supporting  arm  had  disappeared  from  these 
later  accounts.  At  last  they  were  so  near  Sherton 
that  Melbury  informed  his  faithful  followers  that  he 
did  not  wish  to  drag  them  further  at  so  late  an  hour, 
since  he  could  go  on  by  himself  and  inquire  if  the 
woman  who  had  been  seen  were  really  Grace.  But 
they  would  not  leave  him  alone  in  his  anxiety,  and 
trudged  onward  till  the  lamplight  from  the  town 
began  to  illuminate  their  faces.  At  the  entrance  to 
the  borough  they  got  fresh  scent  of  the  pursued,  but 
coupled  with  the  new  condition  that  the  lady  in  the 
costume  described  had  been  going  up  the  street  alone. 

*  Faith — I  believe  she's  mesmerized,  or  walking  in 
her  sleep  ! '  said  Melbury. 

However,  the  identity  of  this  woman  with  Grace 
was  by  no  means  certain  ;  but  they  plodded  along  the 
street.  Percomb  the  hairdresser,  who  had  despoiled 
Marty  of  her  tresses,  was  standing  at  his  door,  and 
they  duly  put  inquiries  to  him. 

'  Ah — how's  Little  Hintock  folk  by  now  ! '  he  cried 

436 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

before  replying.  *  Never  have  I  been  over  there 
since  one  winter  night  some  three  year  ago — and 
then  I  lost  myself  tinding  it.  How  can  ye  live  in 
such  a  one-eyed  place.'*  Great  Hintock  is  bad  enough 
— but  Little  Hintock  —  the  bats  and  owls  would 
drive  me  melancholy-mad !  It  took  two  days  to  raise 
my  sperrits  to  their  true  pitch  again  after  that  night  I 
went  there.  Mr.  Melbury,  sir,  as  a  man  that's  put 
by  money,  why  not  retire  and  live  here,  and  see 
something  of  the  world  ?  * 

The  responses  at  last  given  by  him  to  their  queries 
guided  them  to  the  building  that  offered  the  best 
accommodation  in  Sherton — having  been  rebuilt  con- 
temporaneously with  the  construction  of  the  railway — 
namely,  the  Earl  of  Wessex  Hotel. 

Leaving  the  others  without,  Melbury  made  prompt 
inquiry  here.  His  alarm  was  lessened,  though  his 
perplexity  was  increased,  when  he  received  a  brief 
reply  that  such  a  lady  was  in  the  house. 

*  Do  you  know  if  it  is  my  daughter  ?  *  asked 
Melbury. 

The  waiter  did  not. 

*  Do  you  know  the  lady's  name  ? ' 

Of  this,  too,  the  household  was  ignorant,  the  hotel 
having  been  taken  by  brand-new  people  from  a  dis- 
tance. They  knew  the  gentleman  very  well  by  sight, 
and  had  not  thought  it  necessary  to  ask  him  to  enter 
his  name. 

*  Oh,  the  gentleman  appears  again  now,'  said 
Melbury  to  himself.  *  Well,  I  want  to  see  the  lady,' 
he  declared. 

A  message  was  taken  up,  and  after  some  delay  the 
shape  of  Grace  appeared  descending  round  the  bend 
of  the  staircase,  looking  as  if  she  lived  there,  but  in 
other  respects  rather  guilty  and  frightened. 

*  Why — what  the  name — '  began  her  father.  *  I 
thought  you  went  out  to  get  parsley  ! ' 

'  O  yes — I  did — but  it  is  all  right,'  said  Grace  in  a 
flurried  whisper.     *  I  am  not  alone  here,     I  am  here 

437 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

with   Edred.       It   is  entirely  owing  to  an  accident, 
father.' 

*  Edred  ?  An  accident?  How  does  he  come  here? 
I  thought  he  was  two  hundred  mile  off.' 

*  Yes — so  he  is — I  mean  he  has  got  a  beautiful 
practice  two  hundred  miles  off:  he  has  bought  it  with 
his  own  money,  some  that  came  to  him.  But  he 
travelled  here,  and  I  was  nearly  caught  in  a  man-trap, 
and  that's  how  it  is  I  am  here.  We  were  just  thinking 
of  sending  a  messenger  to  let  you  know.' 

Melbury  did  not  seem  to  be  particularly  enlightened 
by  this  explanation. 

*  You  were  caught  in  a  man-trap  ?  ' 

*  Yes  ;  my  dress  was.  That's  how  it  arose.  Edred 
is  upstairs  in  the  sitting-room,'  she  went  on.  *  He 
would  not  mind  seeing  you,  I  am  sure.' 

*  O  faith,  I  don't  want  to  see  him  !  I  have  seen 
him  too  often  a'ready.  I'll  see  him  another  time, 
perhaps,  if 'tis  to  oblige  'ee.* 

*  He  came  to  see  me ;  he  wanted  to  consult  me 
about  this  large  partnership  I  speak  of,  as  it  is  very 
promising.' 

*  Oh  ;  I  am  glad  to  hear  it,'  said  Melbury  drily. 

A  pause  ensued,  during  which  the  inquiring  faces 
and  whity-brown  clothes  of  Melbury's  companions 
appeared  in  the  doorway. 

*  Then  bain't  you  coming  home  with  us  ? '  he 
asked. 

*  I — I  think  not,'  said  Grace,  blushing. 

*  H'm — very  well — you  are  your  own  mistress,'  he 
returned,  in  tones  which  seemed  to  assert  otherwise. 
*  Good-night ; '  and  Melbury  retreated  towards  the 
door. 

*  Don't  be  angry,  father,'  she  said,  following  him  a 
few  steps.     *  I  have  done  it  for  the  best ! ' 

*  I  am  not  angry,  though  it  is  true  I  have  been  a 
little  misled  in  this  !  However,  good-night.  I  must 
get  home-along.* 

He  left  the  hotel,   not  without  relief,   for  to  be 

438 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

under  the  eyes  of  strangers  while  he  conversed  with 
his  lost  child  had  embarrassed  him  much.  His 
search-party,  too,  had  looked  awkward  there,  having 
rushed  to  the  task  of  investigation  some  in  their 
shirt-sleeves,  others  in  their  leather  aprons,  and  all 
much  stained — ^just  as  they  had  come  from  their  work 
of  barking,  and  not  in  their  Sherton  marketing  attire ; 
while  Creedle,  with  his  ropes  and  grapnels  and  air  of 
impending  tragedy  had  added  melancholy  to  gawki- 
ness. 

*  Now,  neighbours,'  said  Melbury,  on  joining  them, 
*  as  it  is  getting  late  we'll  leg  it  home  again  as  fast  as 
we  can.  I  ought  to  tell  you  that  there  has  been 
some  mistake  —  some  arrangement  entered  into 
between  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Fitzpiers  which  I  didn't 
quite  understand — an  important  practice  in  the  Mid- 
land counties  has  come  to  him,  which  made  it  neces- 
sary for  her  to  join  him  to-night — so  she  says.  That's 
all  it  was — and  I'm  sorry  I  dragged  you  out.' 

*  Well,'  said  the  hollow-turner,  '  here  be  we  seven 
mile  from  home,  and  night-time,  and  not  a  boss  or 
four-footed  creeping  thing  to  our  name.  I  say,  we'll 
have  a  mossel  and  a  drop  o'  summat  to  strengthen 
our  nerves  afore  we  vamp  all  the  way  back  again  ! 
My  throat's  as  dry  as  a  kex.     What  d'ye  say,  so's.*^' 

They  all  concurred  on  the  need  for  sustenance,  and 
proceeded  to  the  antique  back  street  in  which  the  red 
curtain  of  the  tavern  to  which  Winterborne  had  taken 
Grace  was  the  only  radiant  object.  As  soon  as  they 
had  stumbled  down  into  the  room  Melbury  ordered 
them  to  be  served,  when  they  made  themselves  com- 
fortable by  the  long  table,  and  stretched  out  their 
legs  upon  the  herring-boned  sand  of  the  floor.  Mel- 
bury himself,  restless  as  usual,  walked  to  the  door 
while  he  waited  for  them,  and  looked  up  and  down 
the  street. 

*  Well — he's  her  husband,'  Melbury  said  to  himself, 
'and  let  her  take  him  back  to  her  bed  if  she  will!  .  .  . 
But  let  her  bear  in  mind  that  the  woman  walks  and 

439 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

laughs  somewhere  at  this  very  moment  whose  neck 
he'll  be  coling  next  year  as  he  does  hers  to-night ;  and 
as  he  did  Felice  Charmond's  last  year ;  and  Suke 
Damson's  the  year  afore  !  ...  It's  a  forlorn  hope  for 
her  ;  and  God  knows  how  it  will  end  ! ' 

Inside  the  inn  the  talk  was  also  of  the  reunited 
pair. 

*  I'd  gie  her  a  good  shaking  if  she  were  my  maid  ; 
pretending  to  go  out  in  garden,  and  leading  folk  a 
dozen-mile  traipse  that  have  got  to  get  up  at  five 
o'clock  to-morrow,'  said  a  bark-ripper ;  who,  not  work- 
ing regularly  for  Melbury,  could  afford  to  indulge  in 
strong  opinions. 

*  I  don't  speak  so  warm  as  that,'  said  the  hollow- 
turner,  '  but  if  'tis  right  for  couples  to  make  a 
country  talk  about  their  parting  for  ever,  and  excite 
the  neighbours,  and  then  make  fools  of  'em  like  this, 
why,  I  haven't  stood  upon  one  leg  for  five-and-twenty 
year.' 

All  his  listeners  knew  that  when  he  alluded  to  his 
foot-lathe  in  these  enigmatic  terms  the  speaker  meant 
to  be  impressive  ;  and  Creedle  chimed  in  with,  *  Ah, 
young  women  do  wax  wanton  in  these  days !  Why 
couldn't  she  ha  bode  with  her  father,  and  been 
faithful ! '  Poor  Creedle  was  thinking  of  his  old 
employer. 

*  But  this  deceiving  of  folks  is  nothing  unusual  in 
matrimony,'  said  Farmer  Cawtree.  *  I  know'd  a  man 
and  wife — faith,  I  don't  mind  owning,  as  there's  no 
strangers  here,  that  the  pair  were  my  own  relations — 
they'd  be  at  it  that  hot  one  hour  that  you'd  hear 
the  poker,  and  the  tongs,  and  the  bellows,  and  the 
warming-pan,  flee  across  the  house  with  the  move- 
ments of  their  vengeance  ;  and  the  next  hour  you'd 
hear  'em  singing  "  The  Spotted  Cow  "  together,  as 
peaceable  as  two  holy  twins  ;  yes — and  very  good 
voices  they  had,  and  would  strike  in  like  street  ballet- 
singers  to  one  another's  support  in  the  high  notes.' 

*  'Tis  so  with  couples  :  they  do  make  up  differences 

440 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

in  all  manner  of  queer  ways,'  said  the  bark-ripper.  *  I 
knowed  a  woman  ;  and  the  husband  o'  her  went  away 
for  four-and-twenty  year.  And  one  night  he  came 
home  when  she  was  sitting  by  the  fire,  and  thereupon 
he  sat  down  himself  on  the  other  side  of  the  chimney- 
corner.  '•  Well,"  says  she,  "  have  ye  got  any  news  ?  " 
"Don't  know  as  I  have,"  says  he;  "have  you.*^" 
"  No,"  says  she,  "  except  that  my  daughter  by  the 
husband  that  succeeded  'ee  was  married  last  month, 
which  was  a  year  after  I  was  made  a  widow  by  him." 
'*  Oh  !  Anything  else  ?  "  he  says.  **  No,"  says  she. 
And  there  they  sat,  one  on  each  side  of  that  chimney- 
corner,  and  were  found  by  the  neighbours  sound  asleep 
in  their  chairs,  not  having  known  what  to  talk  about 
at  all' 

'  Well,  I  don't  care  who  the  man  is,'  said  Creedle, 
*  it  took  a  good  deal  to  interest  'em,  and  that's  true. 
It  won't  be  the  same  with  these.' 

*  No.  He  is  such  a  projick,  you  see.  And  she  is 
a  wonderful  scholar  too  ! ' 

'  What  women  do  know  nowadays  ! '  observed  the 
hollow-turner.  '  You  can't  deceive  'em  as  you  could 
in  my  time.' 

'  What  they  knowed  then  was  not  small,'  said 
John  Upjohn.  '  Always  a  good  deal  more  than  the 
men  !  Why,  when  I  went  courting  my  wife  that  is 
now,  the  skilfulness  that  she  would  show  in  keeping 
me  on  her  pretty  side  as  she  walked  was  beyond  all 
belief.  Perhaps  you've  noticed  that  she's  got  a  pretty 
side  to  her  face  as  well  as  a  plain  one  ? ' 

*  I  can't  say  I've  noticed  it  particular  much,*  said 
the  hollow-turner  blandly. 

'Well,'  continued  Upjohn,  not  disconcerted,  'she 
has.  All  women  under  the  sun  be  prettier  one  side 
than  t'other.  And,  as  I  was  saying,  the  pains  she 
would  take  to  make  me  walk  on  the  pretty  side  were 
unending  !  I  warrant  that  whether  we  were  going 
with  the  sun  or  against  the  sun,  uphill  or  downhill,  in 
wind  or  in  lewth,  that  wart  of  hers  was  always  towards 

441 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

the  hedge,  and  that  dimple  towards  me.  There  was 
I,  too  simple  to  see  her  wheelings  and  turnings ;  and 
she  so  artful,  though  two  years  younger,  that  she 
could  lead  me  with  a  cotton  thread,  like  a  blind  ram  ; 
for  that  was  in  the  third  climate  of  our  courtship.  .  .  . 
No  :  I  don't  think  the  women  have  got  cleverer,  for 
they  was  never  otherwise.' 

*  How  many  climates  may  there  be  in  courtship, 
Mr.  Upjohn  ? '  inquired  a  youth — the  same  who  had 
assisted  at  Winterborne's  Christmas  party. 

'  Five — from  the  coolest  to  the  hottest — leastwise 
there  was  five  in  mine.' 

'  Can    ye    give    us    the    chronicle    of    'em,    Mr. 
f   Upjohn  ? ' 

I  '  Yes — I  could.      I   could  certainly.      But  'tis  quite 

I  unnecessary.     They'll    come    to   ye  by   nater,   young 
^  man,  too  soon  for  your  good.' 

*  At  present  Mrs.  Fitzpiers  can  lead  the  doctor 
as  your  mis'ess  could  lead  you,'  the  hollow-turner 
remarked.  '  She's  got  him  quite  tame.  But  how 
long  'twill  last  I  can't  say.  I  happened  to  be  setting 
a  wire  on  the  top  of  my  garden  one  night  when  he 
met  her  on  the  other  side  of  the  hedge ;  and  the  way 
she  queened  it,  and  fenced,  and  kept  that  poor  feller 
at  a  distance  was  enough  to  freeze  yer  blood.  I 
should  never  have  supposed  it  of  such  a  girl.' 

Melbury  now  returned  to  the  room,  and  the  men 
having  declared  themselves  refreshed  they  all  started 
on  the  homeward  journey,  which  was  by  no  means 
cheerless  under  the  rays  of  the  high  moon.  Having 
to  walk  the  whole  distance  they  came  by  a  footpath 
rather  shorter  than  the  highway,  though  difficult 
except  to  those  who  knew  the  country  well.  This 
brought  them  by  way  of  the  church  :  and  passing  the 
graveyard  they  observed  as  they  talked  a  motionless 
figure  standing  by  the  gate. 

*  I  think  it  was  Marty  South,'  said  the  hollow- 
turner  parenthetically. 

*  I  think  'twas  ;  'a  was  always  a  lonely  maid,'  said 

442 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

Upjohn.     And  they  passed  on  homeward,  and  thought 
of  the  matter  no  more. 

It  was  Marty,  as  they  had  supposed.  That  even- 
ing had  been  the  particular  one  of  the  week  upon 
which  Grace  and  herself  had  been  accustomed  to 
privately  deposit  flowers  on  Giles's  grave,  and  this  was 
the  first  occasion  since  his  death  eight  months  earlier 
on  which  Grace  had  failed  to  keep  her  appointment. 
Marty  had  waited  in  the  road  just  outside  Melbury's, 
where  her  fellow-pilgrim  had  been  wont  to  join  her, 
till  she  was  weary  ;  and  at  last,  thinking  that  Grace 
had  missed  her,  and  gone  on  alone,  she  followed  the 
way  to  the  church,  but  saw  no  Grace  in  front  of  her. 
It  got  later,  and  Marty  continued  her  walk  till  she 
reached  the  churchyard  gate ;  but  still  no  Grace. 
Yet  her  sense  of  comradeship  would  not  allow  her  to 
go  on  to  the  grave  alone,  and  still  thinking  the  delay 
had  been  unavoidable  she  stood  there  with  her  little 
basket  of  flowers  in  her  clasped  hands,  and  her  feet 
I  chilled  by  the  damp  ground,  till  more  than  two  hours 
had  passed.  She  then  heard  the  footsteps,  of 
Melbury's  men,  who  presently  passed  on  their  return 
from  the  search.  In  the  silence  of  the  night  Marty 
could  not  help  hearing  fragments  of  their  conversa- 
tion, from  which  she  acquired  a  general  idea  of  what 
had  occurred,  and  that  Mrs.  Fitzpiers  was  by  that 
time  in  the  arms  of  another  man  than  Giles. 

Immediately  they  had  dropped  down  the  hill  she 
entered  the  churchyard,  going  to  a  secluded  corner 
behind  the  bushes  where  rose  the  unadorned  stone 
that  marked  the  last  bed  of  Giles  Winterborne.  As 
this  solitary  and  silent  girl  stood  there  in  the  moon- 
light, a  straight  slim  figure,  clothed  in  a  plaitless 
gown,  the  contours  of  womanhood  so  undeveloped  as 
to  be  scarcely  perceptible  in  her,  the  marks  of  poverty 
and  toil  effaced  by  the  misty  hour,  she  touched 
sublimity  at  points,  and  looked  almost  like  a  being  who 
had  rejected  with  indifference  the  attribute  of  sex  for 
the  loftier  quality  of  abstract  humanism.     She  stooped 

443 


THE  WOODLANDERS 

down  and  cleared  away  the  withered  flowers  that 
Grace  and  herself  had  laid  there  the  previous  week, 
and  put  her  fresh  ones  in  their  place. 

*  Now,  my  own,  own  love,'  she  whispered,  *  you 
are  mine,  and  only  mine ;  for  she  has  forgot  'ee  at 
last,  although  for  her  you  died !  But  I — whenever 
I  get  up  I'll  think  of 'ee,  and  whenever  I  lie  down  I'll 
think  of  'ee  again.  Whenever  I  plant  the  young 
larches  I'll  think  that  none  can  plant  as  you  planted  ; 
and  whenever  I  split  a  gad,  and  whenever  I  turn  the 
cider  wring,  I'll  say  none  could  do  it  like  you.  If 
ever  I  forget  your  name  let  me  forget  home  and 
heaven !  .  .  .  But  no,  no,  my  love,  I  never  can  forget 
'ee ;  for  you  was  a  good  man,  and  did  good  things  I  * 


TH£   END 


uiy 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  dare  stamped  below, 
or  on  the  date  to  which  renewed.  Renewals  only: 

Tel.  No.  642-3405 
Renewals  may  be  made  4  days  prior  to  date  due. 
Renewed  books  are  subjea  to  immediate  recall. 


^ 


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